“Show me the rest.”
He moved ahead of me, leading with that anxious, shuffling gait. I followed close, scanning every doorway and shadow. The place was cleaner than it had any right to be after a decade of neglect. Not just swept, but detailed—baseboards scrubbed,glass polished, wood oiled. Jojo was a one-omega cleaning service.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were stripped of personal effects, but ready for guests. Fresh sheets on the beds, windows propped open to air out the must. Jojo’s own “room” was the smallest, off the back stairwell—a simple bed, a heap of threadbare blankets, and a stack of seed catalogs as a makeshift nightstand.
“Where do you get food?” I asked, motioning to the seed catalogs.
He hesitated. “I forage, sometimes, and fish in the river. And I keep a small garden. There’s wild stuff in the forest. I only go to town when I have to.”
“Where?”
“Harmon’s General. Sometimes the bakery, for day-olds.”
“Anyone see you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
I opened the closet—just a battered coat, too big for him, and a pair of scuffed sneakers. Nothing else.
We did the same routine through the rest of the house. Every closet, every drawer. Jojo never protested, never tried to cover his tracks. When we finished, I believed him—he really was alone.
Back in the kitchen, I asked, “How’d you get in?”
He pointed to the mudroom. “One of the windows was busted. I fixed it. You can check.”
I did. The glass was new, held in with fresh putty, not professional but solid. I looked at him with new eyes. “You do that yourself?”
He nodded. “I watched a video. It’s not that hard.”
I let out a breath. “So what, you just planned to live here forever?”
The question seemed to stump him. He sat, elbows tight to his chest. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I just—I neededsomewhere safe. And this place…” He trailed off, looking at his feet.
I sat down again, weighed my options. Jojo’s scent was more manageable now, but every so often, a spike of fear or hope would cut through, sharp as lightning, and it was all I could do not to react.
The alpha in me wanted to push him, to see how fast he’d break. My rational side wanted to tell him to get the hell out before he ended up with more scars.
I decided to split the difference. “I’m not gonna turn you in. But if you’re here tomorrow, you’ll work for your keep. Understood?”
His face lit up. Not relief, but something close. “Yes. I’ll do whatever you need. I know how to clean, and fix stuff, and—”
“And cook,” I said.
He flushed pink, nodding. “That, too.”
I let the silence stretch again, using it as a test. He didn’t fidget or ask questions; he just sat there, waiting for permission to breathe. I liked that.
I got up, paced the room, checked every window and lock. Old SEAL habit. When I came back, he hadn’t moved.
“Sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll see.”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
I almost said something comforting, but it wasn’t my style. Instead, I just gestured at the bowl of bread, then headed out to check on the horses, leaving the door open behind me.
On the porch, the wind was colder, sharp with the promise of rain. I stood there, listening to the house behind me—quiet, but not empty anymore.
For the first time in a long while, I had a reason to keep watch.
