I don’t bother with lights other than a small lamp in the corner. Moonlight spills through the windows, silver and cold, and gives the place that rustic energy I feel so close to.
I kneel at the hearth, stack kindling, add a couple splits of seasoned hickory, and strike a match. The fire catches fast—orange tongues licking up the bark, crackling like they’re happy to see me.
Racer settles down on the rug in front of the hearth with a contented huff.
I grab two beers from the fridge—one for now and one for later—and drop onto the couch. It’s old, dark brown leather, cracked in all the right places. I prop my feet on the coffee table, made from a slab of walnut I milled myself, hit play on the ancient DVD player, and let the opening credits ofCommandoroll.
It’s a classic film. My equivalent of comfort food I guess.
Except tonight I can’t settle.
My eyes keep drifting to the fire instead of the screen. The way the flames dance reminds me of something else—something soft and gold under tavern lights. A nervous giggle. Wet hair clinging to flushed cheeks. Big hazel eyes looking up at me like I might be the answer to a question he hadn’t even asked yet.
Taron.
I take a long pull from the beer and try to shove him out of my head.
He’s passing through. That much was obvious. No one books a room at Miles and Henry’s for longer than a week unless they’ve got roots here or they’re on the run from the law. And I seriously don’t think Taron is a bank robber on the lamb. He’s got city written all over him… soft hands, expensive sneakers even if they were soaked, that little hitch in his voice when he said my name like he was testing how it felt.
Damn.
I could’ve sat down with him.
I could’ve taken the empty stool next to his, bought him another iced tea, listened to whatever story brought him out here running from something. Probably would’ve been easy. Boys like him usually like the strong silent type until they realize the silence isn’t an act.
But then what?
One night? A week? A quick fuck in the back of my truck while the rain drums on the roof, then him gone back to whereverhe came from, leaving me with nothing but the smell of his shampoo on my pillow and another reason to keep the gate locked?
Nah.
That’s not me.
I don’t do temporary. Never have. Never will.
I’ve seen what happens when you let someone in and they leave anyway. Watched my dad drink himself quiet after Mom packed up and moved to Denver when I was nineteen. Watched friends chase city boys who promisedForeverand then ghosted the second the novelty wore off.
I’m good alone.
No, I’m better than good.
I’ve got Racer, the woods, work that keeps my hands busy and my head clear. I don’t need soft curves and shy smiles fucking up my rhythm.
“Ain’t that right, Racer?” I chuckle. “Me, you, and Arnold have got it covered.”
I grab the remote, crank the volume on the movie. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice fills the room and I feel like myself again.
I reach for some popcorn and force my eyes back to the screen.
Taron’s gone tomorrow. Or the day after. Doesn’t matter.
But I’ll still be around, living my life and loving it just the way it is…
Morning comes early, same as always.
I’m up before the sky even thinks about turning pink. Coffee’s brewing—black, strong enough to strip paint.
I step out onto the back deck in nothing but plaid pajama bottoms, bare feet on cold cedar. The air is crisp. Rain stopped sometime after midnight, now everything’s dripping and shining.