"Hey." His voice was low, warm, roughened by something I couldn't quite name. He pushed off from the railing and took a step toward me, his boots scuffing against the worn wooden boards. "Came to find you."
"I was just grabbing clothes." I held up the shirt like evidence, feeling oddly defensive about being caught here—in my own room, such as it was. My cheeks heated, and I ducked my head to hide it. "I was going to come back to the house."
"I know." Reid's voice was gentle, patient, the same tone he used with spooked horses. He closed the distance between us until he was close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could see the fine lines around his eyes and the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."
Something cold curled in my stomach. Here it comes, a voice whispered in the back of my head. The catch. The price. Nothing is ever free. Reid must have seen something change in my expression, because his brow furrowed and he reached out, his large hand coming to rest on my shoulder—warm and grounding, an anchor against the panic rising in my chest.
"Hey." His voice was soft, concerned, his dark eyes searching my face with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. His thumb traced a gentle arc against my collarbone through the thin fabric of my shirt. "Whatever you're thinking, stop. It's nothing bad."
I forced myself to take a breath. Then another.
"Okay." My voice came out smaller than I wanted, thin and uncertain. I made myself meet his eyes, made myself stand still instead of running. "What is it?"
Reid's hand slid from my shoulder to cup the side of my neck, his palm warm against my skin, his fingers curling gently into my hair. The touch was intimate, possessive in a way that should have terrified me but instead made something loosen in my chest.
"You don't have to keep coming back here." His voice was rough, weighted with something that sounded almost like frustration—not at me, but at the situation, at the distance between where I slept and where I spent every waking moment. His dark eyes held mine, earnest and steady. "You're at the main house every day anyway. Every meal, every evening. You only come here to sleep, and even then..." He paused, his jaw tightening, a muscle jumping beneath his stubbled cheek. "It doesn't make sense anymore. If it ever did."
I stared at him, my heart pounding against my ribs.
"What are you saying?" The words came out barely above a whisper, cracked and uncertain. My hand came up to grip his wrist where it curved around my neck, not pulling him away but holding on. "Reid, what are you?—"
"I'm saying you should move into the house." His voice was simple, certain, leaving no room for misunderstanding. His thumb stroked across my pulse point, feeling it race beneath his touch. "You should have a room there. A real room, not this—" He glanced past me at the bare, cold space I'd been calling mine, and something like anger flickered across his weathered face. "Not this."
A room. In the main house. With them.
"But that's—" I stopped, swallowed hard, tried to find the words for the fear clawing at my throat. My fingers tightened onhis wrist, knuckles going white. "What does that mean? If I move in, what does that—what are you expecting?"
Reid's expression softened, the anger melting away into something tender and understanding. He stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to keep meeting his eyes, close enough that his scent surrounded me completely.
"It means you have a place here." His voice was gentle but firm, his dark eyes burning with quiet conviction. His free hand came up to cup my other cheek, holding my face between his palms like something precious. "That's all. It doesn't mean anything you don't want it to mean. It doesn't come with expectations or obligations or strings. It just means you belong here, and you should sleep where you belong instead of walking back to this empty room every night."
My eyes were burning. I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall, but my vision blurred anyway.
"I don't—" My voice cracked, and I had to stop, had to breathe through the tightness in my throat. "I've never had a place. Anywhere. I don't know how to?—"
"You don't have to know how." Reid's voice was rough with emotion, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones, catching the tears I couldn't hold back. His dark eyes were bright, fierce with something that looked like protectiveness and want and something deeper I was afraid to name. "You just have to say yes. The rest, we figure out together."
I stood there in the doorway of the bunkhouse, Reid's hands cradling my face, his scent wrapping around me like a promise, and felt something shift inside me. Something that had been braced for rejection, for betrayal, for the inevitable moment when good things ended—it didn't disappear, but it loosened. Just a little. Just enough.
"Okay." The word came out watery, trembling, but real. I reached up to cover his hands with mine, feeling the rough calluses on his palms, the warmth of his skin. "Okay. Yes."
Reid's breath caught, and then he was pulling me against his chest, his arms banding around me like he was afraid I might change my mind and bolt. His chin rested on top of my head, and I could feel his heart pounding against my cheek—fast and hard, like he'd been just as scared of my answer as I'd been of giving it.
"Good." His voice was muffled against my hair, rough with relief and something that sounded suspiciously like joy. His arms tightened around me, holding me close, holding me safe. "That's good. That's—" He stopped, took a shaky breath. "Thank you. For saying yes."
I laughed against his chest, the sound wet and broken. "You're thanking me? You're the one giving me a room."
"I'm giving you what should have been yours from the start." Reid pulled back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes soft and serious. One hand rose to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with infinite gentleness. "You should have been in the house the first night. But you weren't ready, and we weren't going to push. Now you're ready." His lips curved into a small smile, tender and warm. "Now you're home."
Home. The word settled into my chest and took root, terrifying and wonderful and too big to hold.
Moving didn't take long.
I had one bag. One bag containing everything I owned in the world—three shirts, two pairs of jeans, underwear and socks, a toothbrush, the small pouch of cash I'd managed to save. It should have been depressing, seeing my entire life reduced to something I could carry in one hand. Instead, it felt like possibility. Like starting fresh.
Reid carried the bag for me, even though I told him I could manage. He just took it from my hands without a word and slung it over his shoulder, then held out his free hand for me to take. We walked to the main house together, his fingers threaded through mine, and I tried not to think about how natural it felt. How right.
The room he led me to was on the second floor, and not the one I had stayed in before. It was down the hall from where the others slept. It was bigger than my bunkhouse room—bigger than any space that had ever been mine—with a real bed instead of a cot, a dresser, a window that looked out over the pastures. The walls were a soft cream color, the bedding thick and warm, and everything smelled like clean linen and cedar and the faint undertone of pack scent that permeated the whole house.
