Michael left around midnight, full of pie and triumphant about his poker victories. I walked him to his truck, told myself it was just politeness and not an excuse to have him alone for another minute.
“He's going to be okay,” Michael said, leaning against the driver's side door. “Rafe. He's scared and traumatized, butthere's something solid underneath. He just needs time to remember that not everything is a threat.”
“You got all that from three hours of poker?”
“I got all that from watching him relax. From seeing him actually smile when you made that terrible joke about wolves and betting.” Michael's expression went soft. “You're good with him, Daniel. Patient. Kind. It's nice to see.”
“Thank you,” I said instead. “For coming. For helping.”
“Anytime.” He pushed off from the truck, hesitated. “Daniel?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you want to see me, you don't need to invent a crisis. You can just... ask.”
He was smiling, but there was something serious underneath. An offer. An opening.
“I'll remember that,” I said.
“See that you do.” He climbed into the truck, started the engine. “Goodnight, Daniel. Try to get some sleep.”
“Goodnight, Michael.”
I watched him drive away, taillights disappearing into the dark. Then I went back inside, checked on Rafe one more time—sleeping now, peacefully, no nightmares yet—and headed to my own room.
Sleep was a long time coming.
But when it finally arrived, I dreamed of laughter around a kitchen table, of cards and coffee and Michael's smile, and for the first time in months, the dreams weren't heavy.
They were warm.
And that was enough.
12
DEFINITELY NOT A DATE
MICHAEL
The pack house was quieter than I expected when I let myself in through the side door.
I'd been at the old house since dawn, sanding drywall until my arms screamed and my lungs were coated in white dust. Around noon, my body had staged a rebellion. Hands cramping, back aching, eyes burning from particles I probably should have worn a mask to avoid. Anna would have lectured me about proper safety equipment. She'd been right about most things.
So I'd showered, changed into clothes that didn't make me look like a ghost, and driven to the pack house without really thinking about why.
Okay. That was a lie. I knew exactly why.
The main floor was empty, but I could hear movement upstairs. Papers shuffling. The occasional grumble that sounded less like words and more like a large predator expressing displeasure with the universe.
I followed the sounds to Daniel's office.
He sat behind an oak desk that looked older than the town, surrounded by stacks of paperwork that would have given my accountant nightmares. His reading glasses were perched on his nose, silver frames that softened the hard lines of his face. A pen was clenched between his teeth like he was considering eating it out of spite.
He hadn't noticed me yet.
I leaned against the doorframe and just... watched. The afternoon light caught the silver threading through his dark hair. His flannel sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that I absolutely did not spend too much time looking at. There was a furrow between his brows deep enough to plant seeds in.
“You know,” I said, “if you glare at that paper any harder, it might actually catch fire.”
