I squeeze my eyes shut, exasperated at myself. Why the hell am I like this?
When I pull the door open, a rush of cool air sweeps in, bringing with it the unmistakable presence of someone standing right there.
A voice fills the doorway the way some people fill entire rooms—loud, warm, and absolutely impossible to ignore. It’s a tall voice. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. It stretches upward in my mind like it’s towering way above me, all height and broad shoulders I can only imagine.
“Hi… uh… hello. Sorry to intrude like this. My name’s Beau, Beau Bergen.”
There’s a beat, one of those awkward, shuffling silences where I can practically feel him rethinking every life choice that led him to my porch. Then he blurts out, flustered and honest, “Oh hell. Sorry. I’m literally holding out my hand. Wow, I’m an idiot.”
Something tight in my chest loosens.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, and it’s way more genuine than I’ve managed around strangers in a long time. If I had a penny for every time someone tried to shake my hand and then remembered I couldn’t see it, I could buy a yacht.
Okay, fine, technically I could buy a yacht now, but considering I barely have my sea legs on land, putting me on a boat would definitely earn me a Darwin Award.
Blind girl blindly yeets herself overboard.Very poetic.
So, I take pity on the guy.
Or maybe I take pity on myself, on that stubborn part of me that still wants people to forget I’m blind. That part that aches a little every time someone edits themselves around me, slows their voice, shifts into that careful, cautious tone like I might break.
But this guy? He forgot. Just for a moment, he forgot.
He saw apersonon the other side of the door, not a disability. He made a faux pas because he treated me like anyone else, and honestly that feels more normal than anything has in a long time. So, yeah. I’m okay with that.
More than okay.
“Violet,” I say, thrusting my hand in his approximate direction, hoping I’m at least gesturing at a human and not a porch post. “Trust me, I’ve done the same thing.”
He snorts. “You also try to shake a blind person’s hand?”
“Not exactly, but one time I did tell an amputee she was missing a limb.”
There’s a beat, then his laugh erupts, loud and larger than life like he feels. And with it comes a soft whine. Low, familiar, heartbreakingly gentle.
I freeze. My breath collapses in on itself. I know that sound. I know it in my bones.
The dog from yesterday.
My heart trips, stumbles, then launches into a full sprint, thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to get to him first. For one reckless second, I swear I could just drop to my knees, fling my arms around his neck, and bury myself in the safety of his fur.
Don’t act like a crazy person, Violet. Don’t scare them off. Keep it together. You can’t tackle their dog. You absolutely cannot tackle their dog. Even if it feels like he saved your life yesterday.
“Look… uh… I’d invite you in, but since I can’t tell if you’re wielding an axe or anything, I have to be rude.”
The words tumble out before I can stop them.Great, Violet. Tell the potential murderer you’re defenseless.
“Nah,” he says, all warm and easy, “I don’t carry an axe. I prefer a bow as my weapon of choice. Like the Pink Ranger.”
I blink. Hard.
“Pink Ranger, as in thePower Rangers?”
His tone shoots up an entire octave, pure, unfiltered excitement bursting out of him like confetti. “Exactly!”
And I can’t help it, but my own mouth curves. That kind of enthusiasm is contagious, impossible not to catch. The tension in my shoulders loosens a fraction. He doesn’t sound like a murderer. He sounds like a giant, overgrown nerd who probably cries during superhero movies.
“I used to watch thePower Rangersas a kid. My favorite was the Purple Power Ranger. For obvious reasons.”
