“Copy.” The word is a habit; it’s how my brain stamps the moment complete.
She gives me a playful salute and smirks like we’re sharing a joke. I file it under Things I Want More Of.
While the water heats, I do the small domestic rounds: clean towels in the bathroom, one of my flannel shirts folded on the bathroom radiator. Considering she only has a backpack, I imagine clothing hasn’t been a priority.
I text the Sutton brothers, then Tex and Tank: Home. All good.
Angus:
This is basically poetry from him.
Henry:Tell Sadie thanks again.
Tom:
Tex:Home with a woman? Look at you, Saint. Growth.
Tank:Keep the door unlocked in case she needs to escape your brooding.
Sadie watches me as I move around, registering the details. Noticing things is her reflex. I respect it because I’m the same way.
“Would you like to take a shower?” I ask. “I’ve put out fresh towels. Door doesn’t lock, but it sticks.”
Sadie hesitates. Is she weighing whether she wants to be vulnerable for the time it takes her to shower in a house that isn’t hers?
“I’ll be here. I’ll keep an eye on her,” I add reassuringly, nodding toward Maisie.
That tips it. She softens like a knot pulled loose. “Okay.”
“You hungry?” I ask, realizing she still hasn’t eaten. “I have leftover lasagna from yesterday.”
Sadie sighs. “That sounds amazing. Thank you.”
She disappears down the short hall. The bathroom door doesn’t shut fully—she leaves it like that on purpose, a sliver of sightline to the world. I keep my eyes on the fire and on Maisie and nowhere near that line.
But fuck if I’m not tempted.
Not because I want to see anything she’s not offering. Not because I’d ever cross that line. It’s the trust. The knowledge that she left the door cracked not out of seduction, but survival.
Steam ghosts the hall as the shower runs. The generator stutters once when the hot water kicks in, then levels. She’s letting me hear the water run. Letting me prove I’m a man who stays exactly where he says he will.
And still—still—my body tightens at the thought of her in there. Stripping away the day. The nerves. The weight she’s been carrying since the moment she stepped on that stage. Her hair damp and loose. Her skin flushed from the steam. Her guard lowered a little.
That’s what tempts me.
Not her body, though God help me, that’s a hell of a thing. It’s the thought of her finally relaxing. Letting go. Letting herself feel safe enough to close both eyes.
And the part of me that’s still broken wants to earn that. Wants to be the one she turns to after the shower, after the worst of it’s scrubbed away, after she’s warm and clean and maybe even okay.
So I stay rooted right where I am because trust like that is more intimate than anything skin-deep.
I give Maisie half a tablet of the carprofen I grabbed from the ranch house with some stewing steak I cooked earlier.
When Sadie returns, she’s wearing black leggings and my flannel. Seeing her in it does weird things to my heart. Her dark hair is damp and curling around her shoulders. Her cheeks are pink from the heat. She looks… softer.
“Take a seat.” I indicate the kitchen table, where a plate of lasagna and a hot mug of tea are waiting for her.
She sits, cradling the mug in both hands, blowing across the surface. “Thank you. For this. For... everything.”
