“Thank you, Emily.” His words come warmer now, wrapped in a contented purr that does things to my stomach. “Not many people would do this for someone they barely know.”
I focus on wiping down the counter, removinginvisible crumbs. “We’re coworkers, and you needed a place to stay.”
He presses the ice pack to his nose. “Is that all it is?”
The simple question hangs in the air between us. When I heard what happened, I never once questioned his innocence. I believe in him, without evidence, without reason beyond instinct. An instinct I’ve learned to distrust after Auren showed me how easily it could be manipulated.
“The medication is kicking in.” I tap the counter twice. “Time for bed. You need rest.”
He sways when he stands, and I cup his elbow until he finds his balance.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, straightening. “It hit me all at once.”
My hand falls away from his arm, the brief contact leaving an imprint of warmth against my palm. “Come on, I’ll show you to the guest room.”
As I lead him into the living room, his gaze settles on the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, the pattern creating ridges of texture in the dim light.
He gestures toward it. “Did you knit that, too?”
I stiffen. “Crocheted, but yes.”
His fingers brush the edge of the blanket, testing the texture. “It’s beautiful work.”
My throat tightens at the casual compliment. “It passes the time.”
Jared moves along the wall, noticing the subtle carving marks along the baseboards, leaves and vines I spent long weeks to complete during the darkest days after Auren left.
“You made all this.” Not a question this time. He studies the half-finished wooden cat on the bookshelf, its features emerging from cedar but not yet complete. “But no one else lives here?”
I don’t answer, the observation cutting too close to a loneliness I don’t want to examine.
I grab his bag from the floor when we pass, not trusting him to stay upright if he bends over.
“This is the guest room.” I push open a door at the end of the hallway, and I step inside to switch on the stained-glass bedside lamps.
The mahogany headboard catches in the warm light, shadows playing across its surface until it appears alive. I carved the story into it months ago, of vines and leaves climbing toward a sun, two birds meeting at the apex, and for a heartbeat, I wish I had chosen a design that was less revealing. There’s too much truth in wood.
Jared steps past me and stops, his breath leaving him on a small sound that’s not quite a word.
The queen bed sits where I set it up when Ithought this room would be used, centered and welcoming, layered the way an Omega likes to nest. The blue and green quilt lies beneath a creamy wool coverlet. Pillows stack near the headboard in a tidy drift, each in a different case I made with my own hands, some embroidered, some quilted, some chocheted when the winter storms wouldn’t let me sleep. A heavy, chunky-patterned throw in deep forest green rests at the foot like a promise I never had the chance to make.
Jared moves around the room, inspecting the frames hanging on the sage green walls and a small bookshelf filled with fairy tales. Trailing plants spill from the brackets I installed on a late Sunday afternoon. The bay window seat holds the same blues and greens as the quilt, hooks beside it holding two afghans I told myself were for guests.
He lifts the crocheted blanket to his cheek. “It’s so soft.”
My throat tightens. “It’s alpaca.”
The pine floor glows under the braided rug, the concentric colors holding the room together. In the corner, the little fireplace is laid and ready but unlit, with a painting of the ocean at sunset offering a spot of hope for a new day.
Jared brings the blanket with him as he totters toward the headboard, his admiring gaze driftingover it. “It’s a shame to keep this kind of talent hidden.”
He turns back toward me and sways, the medication taking a firmer hold now. His fingers trail along the edge of the quilt, again, testing the texture with a childlike fascination that reveals how much pain he was hiding before. “How is this so soft?”
It’s ridiculous how the simple pleasure on his face undoes me.
“It’s alpaca,” I tell him again. Clearly the meds are working. I take the ornamental throw pillows off the bed and adjust the ones meant for sleeping, each with a different firmness for different needs. “Washed it with lanolin soap.”
I bustle into the bathroom to retrieve a basket filled with extra gauze, antibiotic ointment, and adhesive tape, bringing it back to set on the nightstand. “In case your nose starts bleeding in the night.”