My first impression is that the place is cozy. A little dated, sure, and definitely more functional than stylish. The walls are bare but solid, but it’s fine.
My second impression?
…There’s a hoodie on the back of the couch.
I freeze halfway through unzipping my coat, frown, and scan the room.
There are big boots by the door; the kind of size you don’t find in the women’s section, and that usually comes attached to a man who lives in the weight room. Or, in this town, on the ice.
Keys hang on a hook by the kitchen, and a worn leather keychain dangles at the bottom. It’s a miniature hockey stick, nicked and scratched, like it’s seen some action.
My brow furrows hard enough to wrinkle my scalp.
Okay,weird.
I tell myself that none of these things are unexplainable, even though they absolutely are. Who knows, though: maybe the last tenant hasn’t finished moving out. That’s a possibility. Or maybe the cleaning crew missed a few things.
After all, small towns run on casual chaos and shrugged shoulders, right?
I swallow as I step further in and flip on the lights. As I slowly step through, I realize that the kitchen is… stocked. And notleft behind in the rushstocked, either, butcurrently in usestocked. There’s a cast iron skillet on the stove, a half-used hot sauce bottle next to a box of protein bars, and a black water bottle with faded tape wrapped around the middle sitting on the windowsill, just visible in the light.
In scrawled marker, above the tape, I make out two hand-drawn antlers.
I stare at it for a second too long.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, my voice tightening. “Someone really didn’t get the memo.”
I back out of the kitchen and into the hallway, flick on another light, and peek into the bathroom.
There’s a razor, men’s deodorant, and a towel hanging up.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I make my way to the stairs, one creaking step at a time, my stomach tightening with every groan of the floorboards. There’s a faint echo of a scent up here too—clean sweat, soap, a hint of something sharp and cool. It’s not strong enough to peg, exactly, but it scratches at a memory from the diner; of pine and ice and frustration.
There are two doors on the landing. The first is the bedroom from the listing, which is neatly made, clearly meant for me.
The second is shut.
I stare at it for a beat, as curiosity and dread coil in my throat; and then I open it.
This room is not staged.
It isoccupied.
There’s an unmade bed in the center, and a half-filled laundry basket in the corner. A Moose jacket hangs on the wall, as well as cologne on the windowsill and socks on the floor. A duffel bag is slouched by the end of the bed, and the scent of an alpha is…
Overwhelming.
And, though I hate to admit it:familiar.
I step back then shut the door slowly, my expression blank as my mind attempts to process all of this.
Okay.Okay. Deep breaths.
It’s safe to say that someone is very much still living here, which was… Not expected. I think back to the calls I’ve had with the rental agency and don’t recall a single conversation about havinga housemate. So, who the hell am I even supposed to call to figure this out? Coach? The rental agency? Animal control?
“This is fine,” I whisper, which is a lie. “This issofine.”
