“It looks like home,” I said finally, and meant it.
Evan's shoulders relaxed, and he led me up the gravel drive with something that might have been pride in his posture.
Inside, the house smelled like coffee and woodsmoke and something indefinably wild that made my skin prickle with awareness. Heavy wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, and every surface seemed to hold the weight of history—carved wolf totems on the mantelpiece, old photographs in silver frames, books that looked like they'd been read and loved and passed down through generations.
“Evan.”
The voice came from deeper in the house, rich and commanding in a way that made my spine straighten automatically. Footsteps approached, and then a man appeared in the doorway like he'd materialized from the shadows themselves.
He was taller than I'd expected, broader through the shoulders. Steel-gray hair, weathered hands that looked like they could build houses or tear them down depending on his mood, and eyes the same shifting hazel as his son's.
But where Evan's eyes held questions and uncertainty, this man's were steady.
“Dad,” Evan said, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Because Evan was talking. Actually using his voice, rough with disuse but unmistakably real, in front of another person.
In front of me.
“This is Nate,” Evan continued, and hearing my name in his voice felt like sunlight breaking through clouds after a year-long winter.
The man's gaze shifted to me, and I had the unsettling sensation of being weighed and measured by someone who could see through bullshit at fifty paces.
“Daniel Callahan,” he said, extending a hand that engulfed mine when I shook it. His grip was firm, testing, like he was taking my measure through the simple act of introduction. “Welcome to our home, Nate.”
The formal politeness carried an undertone I couldn't quite decipher—not unfriendly, but definitely watchful. Like he was reserving judgment until he figured out exactly what kind of threat or blessing I represented to his son.
“Thank you, sir.” My voice came out steady despite the fact that my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. “Beautiful home.”
“It's been in the family for generations.” Daniel's tone was neutral, but there was something in his eyes that suggested this was a test of some kind. “Evan, why don't you show Nate around? I'll be in my study if you need anything.”
It wasn't a dismissal exactly, but it felt like one.
Evan led me upstairs to his room, and if the house had felt like stepping into history, this felt like stepping into his soul.
Simple furniture, worn soft with use. A guitar propped against the wall, its strings catching the light from tall windows. Sketches scattered across a desk, charcoal and pencil studies of wolves and forests and faces I recognized from around town.
And there, half-hidden beneath a stack of notebooks, was a drawing of me.
Not a candid sketch or an artistic interpretation. Me, captured in careful detail, memorizing the curve of my mouth and the way my hair fell across my forehead.
“You drew me,” I said, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter had completely abandoned ship.
Evan went scarlet, lunging for the sketch like he could somehow erase the evidence of its existence. But I was faster, catching his wrist before he could hide it away.
“Don't,” I said softly. “It's... fuck, Evan. It's beautiful.”
He stared at me for a long moment, hazel eyes wide with something that looked like panic. Then his shoulders sagged, and he sank onto the edge of his bed like a marionette with cut strings.
“You don't have to put on a show,” I said, settling into his desk chair. “I like it here. I like...” I gestured vaguely at the room, at him, at the space between us that felt charged with possibility. “I like you.”
Evan's hands clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles white with tension. I could see him struggling with something, couldpractically feel the war being waged between wanting to speak and being terrified of the consequences.
“Nate.”
My name, whispered so quietly I almost missed it. But I heard it, felt it settle into my chest like a piece of music I'd been waiting my whole life to hear.
“There it is,” I breathed, unable to keep the wonder out of my voice. “You sound exactly like I imagined you would.”
