“We know,” Wyatt says. “We’re offering anyway.”
The rational part of me knows I should hesitate. Think through the logistics of sharing a cabin with three men who make my pulse do strange gymnastics.
The panicked, exhausted, smoky-lunged part of me just wants to not die.
So I nod.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay, I’ll go with you.”
“Good,” Marshall says. “We’ll help you pack. Ten minutes tops.”
“Ten minutes?” I squeak.
“Fire doesn’t care how attached you are to your furniture,” Jesse points out gently.
He’s not wrong.
I let go of the door and step back. “Okay. Um. Bedroom’s down the hall. Bathroom’s that way. Kitchen… obvious.”
Jesse steps inside again. “I’ll get the kitchen and any meds.”
Wyatt and Marshall follow.
“Bedroom, then. Clothes, keepsakes, documents,” Wyatt says.
The three of them move through my home with purposeful efficiency.
I stand in the center of the living room, frozen, watching them.
It’s disorienting, these big, solid men in my quiet space. Their bootsteps thud against my grandmother’s floors. Their hands touch cupboards she built, drawers she organized. They move with care, but it still feels surreal.
Then reality snaps back, and I move.
In the bedroom, Wyatt is pulling my old duffel bag from the closet while I grab clothes with shaking hands.
“Comfy, warm layers,” he reminds me. “Not your entire wardrobe.”
“My ‘entire wardrobe’ fits in three drawers,” I mutter, trying to fold shirts and failing.
He glances at me over his shoulder, and I catch the ghost of a smile. “Then two of them.”
He helps without hovering, handing me hangers to slide off, finding my extra socks, tossing in pajamas.
“Essentials,” he says gently. “Think: if you had to start over completely, what would you be devastated to lose?”
My gaze shoots to the bookshelf.
“The journals,” I breathe.
“Go,” he says. “I’ll zip this up.”
I rush back into the living room. Marshall is there, stacking framed photos on the coffee table, sorting them quickly.
“Mabel, I’m guessing,” he says, pointing at one. “Your parents. You.”
I nod, throat tight.
“Take the photos,” he says. “Glass can be replaced. Pictures can’t.”
