“I don’t know the first thing about dogs,” Booneprotested even as his hand dropped to rest on Bishop’s head. The fur was softer than he expected, warm against his palm. “I’ve never even had a pet.”
“Good thing Bishop knows what he’s doing, then,” Walker said. “He’s got some training. Shelter said he last owner died and left him alone in the world.”
Bishop leaned into his touch, and something in Boone’s chest cracked open.
“Why?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking. Why him? Why now? Why would anyone trust him with something living, something that could be hurt?
Walker and Johanna exchanged a glance, one of those silent communications that passed between people who knew each other well. It made Boone feel like an intruder, a trespasser in a world he didn’t belong to.
“Everyone needs someone to look after,” Walker said finally. “Something to care about besides their own shit.”
Johanna shot him a look that Boone couldn’t quite interpret, but Walker just shrugged and picked up his plate, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“Dogs don’t care about your past,” Johanna added. “They only care about how you treat them now. Bishop has had a rough go of it—lost his family, stuck in the shelter for months. But look at him.” She gestured to where Bishop sat pressed against Boone’s leg. “He’s already decided you’re his person.”
“But I’m not—” He stopped, unsure how to finish.
Not good enough?
Not staying?
Not the kind of person who got second chances?
“You are,” Walker said, cutting through his unspoken doubts with characteristic bluntness. “So stop overthinking it and eat your damn breakfast before it gets cold.”
Just like that, as if giving Boone a dog was the most natural thing in the world, Walker went back to his own eggs.
Bishop nudged his hand with his nose, as if reminding him that it had stopped moving. Absently, he resumed petting. “I don’t have anything for him. No food, no... whatever dogs need.”
“All taken care of.” Johanna gestured to a pile of supplies in the corner— a bag of premium dog food, a bed, a collar and leash. “We picked everything up yesterday.”
That explained the delay in their return, why they hadn’t caught him loading up his truck right away. They’d been out getting supplies for a dog they’d already decided would be his. The realization was both warming and terrifying. They’d had such certainty that he would stay, that he would accept this responsibility.
That certainty felt like a weight and a gift all at once.
“Come and sit,” Johanna said, nodding toward the table. “You look like you could use some fuel.”
Boone had to nudge Bishop out of the way to pull out a chair. The dog settled under the table with a heavy sigh, his warm body resting on Boone’s socked feet.
How strange, this sensation of being accompanied, of not being alone even in the simple act of sitting down for breakfast.
Walker brought over plates loaded with eggs (slightly burned, just as Johanna had teased), bacon, and toast slathered with butter. It was a simple meal, but it made Boone’s chest constrict. The normality of it all, the three of them sitting down to breakfast on Christmas morning like they did this every day. Like they were...
Boone shut down that thought before it could fully form. Too dangerous. Too much potential for disappointment.
“You sleep okay?” Walker asked, breaking the silence. “Couch isn’t much, but it’s better than spending the night in your truck.”
Boone nodded, focusing on his food to avoid eye contact. “Fine,” he said. Then, because the word felt inadequate: “Thanks.”
“Your mom can come stay here, you know,” Walker said, his fork halfway to her mouth. “Plenty of room.”
Boone’s head jerked up. “What?”
“If she’s having trouble recognizing her own home, sometimes a change of scenery can help,” Johanna said. “New place, new associations. It could give her brain a fresh start.”
“And Hank wouldn’t have easy access to her anymore,” Walker added, a hint of steel in his voice. “Can’t poison her against you.”
The thought of his mom here, away from the house that increasingly confused her, away from the Goodwin family’s influence—it was almost too much to hope for. “She might not come. She’s stubborn.”
