I block her with my shoulder gently. “I’ve got it.”
Her eyes flash. “I can carry a bag.”
“I know,” I say. “Let me do something for you without you fighting me like I’m your enemy.” That lands.
Her mouth opens, then closes. She exhales through her nose. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, and lead her toward the porch.
Inside, Rainmaker is warm. Quiet. The air smells faintly like cedar and clean linens. Lights come on automatically as we enter, motion-activated, soft and low. There’s a living room with a deep couch, a worn leather chair, a big coffee table. A kitchen that looks too normal—pots, plates, a fruit bowl like someone’s trying to pretend this is just a weekend getaway.
A hallway leads to two doors. I set the duffel down and do what I always do. I sweep. I check corners, closets, behind curtains. I check windows and locks. I check under beds because I’m a grown man who has absolutely had to drag people out from under beds before and I don’t trust anything.
Salem stays near the entryway, watching me with an expression that’s half annoyed, half… something softer. “You always do that?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say, checking the back door lock. “Habit.”
“From what?” she presses.
I glance back at her. There are questions behind her eyes that are not about locks. They’re about who I am when I’m not making jokes. I don’t give her the ugly details. Not tonight. “From the fact that people suck,” I say simply.
She nods once like that answer makes sense in her bones.
When I’m satisfied, I return to the living room. “All clear,” I say.
Salem exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the SUV stopped. She shifts her weight, suddenly looking small in the oversized hoodie, exhaustion pulling at her posture.
I grab the duffel and carry it down for her anyway because I’m apparently incapable of not doing things. I push open the bedroom door— and stop.
Because there’s one bed.
Not two.
Not a pull-out.
One single bed in the center of the room with clean sheets and a blanket folded at the foot. I stand there for a beat, staring at it like it’s personally offended me. Behind me, Salem peers around my shoulder.
“Oh,” she says. The word is quiet. Not flirty. Not teasing. Just… tired.
I clear my throat. “You get the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
Salem’s gaze stays on the bed, then slides to me. “I’m not—” She swallows. “I’m not trying to make this weird.”
“I’m not either,” I say. “It’s not weird.”
It’s weird.
It’s not weird because of sex.
It’s weird because of her. Because my body keeps reacting like it recognizes her, like it wants to fold around her and keep her there. Like it wants to be the safe place, not just lead her to one.
I step aside so she can enter.
She moves slowly, like her body is finally letting the crash hit. “I’m going to shower,” she says, voice small and stubborn at once. “If that’s okay.”
“It’s your house,” I say, then correct myself because it sounds wrong. “It’s yours for now.”
She nods and goes to the attached bathroom with the duffel. The door shuts softly.