That thought has been circling since last night, persistent and sharp. I brought a stranger into my home. Into the one place I’ve kept locked down and controlled for years. I don’t do impulsive or reckless. But having her here feels right. The certainty of it sits solid in my gut. She’s safe under my roof. Protected by locked gates and thick walls and the simple fact that anyone who wants to get to her has to come through me first. The idea is… consuming.
I step back and ease the door almost closed, giving her privacy. In the kitchen, I start the coffee maker and lean my hands on the counter, staring out at the storm.
I wasn’t completely honest with her yesterday. I told her I work from home. That after the military I liked the peace that came with working for myself. That part is true. What I didn’t say is what the work actually is. The military taught me a very specific set of skills. Skills that don’t translate neatly into desk jobs or quiet office buildings. When I left, there were people who knew exactly how to make use of what I could do. Private contracts. High-risk security. The kind of work that lives in the gray spaces between legality and necessity.
Mercenary is the word most people would use. It’s not one I advertise. I take jobs that need doing. Dangerous jobs. Jobs that require precision and a willingness to step into situations most sane men run from. The money is good. The work is clean in its own way. And when I come home, I come back to this mountain and the silence that scrubs the noise out of my head.
I built this place to be a fortress. The fence. The cameras. The long drive that gives me time to see trouble coming. Every detail is intentional. And now Wren is inside that fortress.
My jaw tightens as I picture her stepbrother. The way she said the word running. The fear that flashed across her face at the mention of the diner. I don’t need to meet the man to know what he is. I’ve dealt with his type before. Men who mistake control for care. Who think ownership is the same as love.
The need to keep her safe rises up again, fierce and steady. It threads through my chest and settles there, heavy and undeniable. This isn’t just about offering shelter from a storm. It’s about making sure nothing drags her back into the life she escaped.
My feelings for her are growing faster than they should. I’ve known her a month. A handful of conversations across a diner counter. One night under my roof. That should not be enough to anchor her this firmly in my thoughts. And yet every time I picture her curled up in that bed, wrapped in my blankets, something in me locks into place. A protective instinct that borders on possessive. The urge to keep. To guard. To build a wall around her and dare the world to try its luck.
It’s dangerous territory. Not because the feeling is wrong. But because it’s powerful. Consuming in a way that demands respect.
The coffee finishes brewing with a soft hiss. I pour a mug and carry it to the living room, standing by the window as I watch the storm rage. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly. Bear’s nails click against wood. She’s waking up.
I take a slow sip of coffee and let the heat settle in my chest. Whatever this is between us, whatever it’s becoming, I know one thing with absolute clarity. She’s under my protection now. And I’m not letting anyone take that away.
The floorboard outside the guest room creaks again, softer this time. I turn from the window just as she appears at the end of the hall. For a second I forget how to breathe. Wren looks soft and rumpled from sleep, wrapped in my clothes likeshe belongs in them. The long sleeve shirt hangs loose over her frame, the sleeves pushed up to her wrists. The sweats bunch around her hips and ankles. Her dark hair is tousled, falling over one shoulder in a messy wave, and her eyes are still heavy with sleep. She looks… warm. Safe. Mine. The thought lands before I can stop it.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” I answer.
I’m already moving toward the kitchen. I pour her a mug of coffee without asking this time and add cream and sugar before I carry it back. Yesterday she said black was fine, but I remember the way she hesitated. The way she always tries to make herself smaller. Easier.
I hand her the mug.
She looks down at it, then back up at me. Her smile blooms slow and bright, lighting up her whole face. She takes a careful sip and closes her eyes for half a second.
“Oh,” she breathes. “That’s perfect.”
Something tight in my chest loosens. God, I want her to smile like that at me all the time. Before I can think too hard about it, she sets the mug on the counter and steps into my space. Her arms slide around my middle in a quick, warm hug.
“Thank you,” she says softly against my chest. “For everything.”
The contact is brief but it hits like a physical blow. My hands hover for a fraction of a second before I settle them lightly at her back. She tilts her head and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. Warm. Innocent. Intimate in a way that steals the air from my lungs.
Then she pulls away, completely unaware of the storm she just kicked up inside me. She grabs her coffee and heads into the kitchen like she’s been doing it her whole life.
I follow more slowly and lean against the counter, watching her.
She opens cabinets with easy curiosity, peering inside like she’s mapping the space. The fridge door swings open. She starts pulling things out. Eggs. Milk. Butter. A bag of flour from the pantry.
“What are you doing, sweetheart?” I ask.
The nickname slips out naturally. It fits her too well.
She glances over her shoulder, eyes bright. “I’m making my world famous pancakes.”
I raise an eyebrow. “World famous, huh?”
“Absolutely,” she says with mock seriousness. “People travel miles.”
A quiet laugh rumbles out of me. I cross my arms and let her take over my kitchen. She moves with a comfortable confidence that feels intimate in a way I didn’t expect. Measuring flour. Cracking eggs. Humming softly under her breath.
