Still, this house has rules; a rhythm and routine I’ve built with quiet hands and a need for control, and now she’s here, sound asleep on my couch.
The floor creaks under my weight as I step further inside, but she doesn’t stir. Instead, she breathes evenly, looking every inch of someone who has finally found somewhere to land.
That thought makes me angrier than it should.
I don't know why.
My fingers twitch like they want something to hold, to anchor me. A puck. A stick.
A reason not to feel this off-balance.
I should go upstairs and let her sleep, let itgo; but the thing about pain—when it’s chronic, when it’syours—is that it eats at everything, including your patience and your tolerance for surprise.
So, I don’t give it more thought as I reach out and nudge the coffee table with my foot. Not enough to knock anything over, just enough to send a small, intentionalthudthrough the wood.
She startles. Her hazel eyes snap open, bleary and wide before she sits up, blinking slowly.
“Shit,”she mutters, dragging a hand across her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Her gaze tracks up to mine before her eyes narrow slightly. Her shoulders tense, then ease when I don’t move closer.
“You’re—”
“Beau.”
A pause.
Then:
“...You live here?”
I nod.
She looks at the couch, then at the blanket wrapped around her, then back at me with a slow-building frown.
“That would’ve been great information to have about three hours ago. Or, you know, threeweeksago.”
I cross my arms, shoulder complaining in protest.
“What: the rental agency didn’t tell you?”
“They said I’d be renting a place with character,” she deadpans. “They didn't say it came with a brooding hockey player. I'd definitely remember that.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What gave it away?” My eyes scan the room, then land on the back of the couch. “Was it the hoodie?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah. That, and it's kinda hard to miss the Moose logos everywhere.” She sighs, looking thoughtful for a moment. “It’s like a cult, but with more concussions.”
“Right,” I huff. “Well, congratulations. You’ve officially met your first small-town cliché.”
“Yeah, well. If I’d known I’d be sharing square footage with a Moose, I might’ve asked for hazard pay,” she mutters.
I narrow my eyes, not quite sure I like her tone, or her attitude.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
