The gate slides shut behind us and she turns her head to watch it, tracking the movement until the lock clicks into place. She studies the mechanism like she’s memorizing it, then looks at the house, taking in the lights, the cameras, the line of the roof.
“You live like this always?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
She nods once, filing that away. She steps in beside me as we walk toward the front door, shoulders still tight but not as high as before, her eyes moving over the yard one more time before I unlock the house. Mason will have something to say about it later. I don’t care enough to rethink it.
I open the door and step back. “After you.”
She walks in without hesitation this time. I close the door behind us and lock it out of habit, setting the alarm before I turn back to her. She’s standing just inside the entry, not frozen, just waiting, taking in the layout like she’s mapping it in her head.
“This is the main floor,” I tell her. “Kitchen’s through here.”
She follows me without hesitation, steps quiet, controlled. The kitchen lights flick on overhead and she scans it the same way she scanned the yard. Counters. Windows. Back door. I move to the fridge and pull it open.
“Eat whatever you want,” I say. “There’s water, juice, leftovers. Pantry’s stocked. Coffee’s there.” I point toward the machine. “Tea’s in the cabinet above the stove.”
She walks closer, opens the fridge herself, not asking permission. I respect that. She studies what’s inside, then closes it gently.
“You cook?” she asks.
“Sometimes.”
She glances at the stove, the knives on the magnetic strip, the dish rack by the sink. “It is… organized.”
“Yeah.”
She nods once, like that answers more than I said.
I walk her down the short hallway. “Bathroom’s here.” I push the door open and step aside. “Towels are clean. Cabinet’s stocked. If you need anything, tell me.”
She moves inside, eyes shifting to the shower, the window, the mirror. She turns the faucet on briefly, testing the pressure, then shuts it off.
“You live alone,” she says again, quieter now.
“Yeah.”
She nods and steps back into the hall.
“Guest room’s this way.”
I open the door and flip the light on. There are a few boxes stacked against one wall. Old files. Some spare parts I haven’t taken to the shop yet. Nothing personal. The bed’s made, sheets clean, pillows fluffed. I changed them before I left for the hospital.
“There’s some stuff in here,” I say, gesturing toward the boxes. “I’ll move it if it bothers you.”
She walks in slowly, running her hand over the edge of the dresser, then the nightstand. She presses down on the mattress like she’s testing it, then looks at the window, checking the lock.
“It is fine,” she says. “I have slept in worse.”
That lands wrong in my chest.
“You’re not going to here,” I tell her.
She looks at me for a long second. Not arguing. Just holding my gaze.
“I know,” she says.
I step back, giving her space. “Door locks from the inside. Windows are reinforced. Cameras cover the perimeter. If anything moves out there, I’ll know.”
