“It’s not much,” I say, suddenly self-conscious about the plainness of it. “Sheets are clean, blankets too. There’s extra in the closet if you get cold. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. You, uh…” I clear my throat. “You can unpack if that makes it easier.”
She steps into the room slowly, fingers brushing the top of the dresser, then the bedspread, making sure they’re solid. For a heartbeat, the hard line of anxiety in her shoulders loosens.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers.
A ball of emotion lodges in my throat.
“Sit,” I say, more gruffly than I intend, setting her bag down by the dresser. “Just for a minute.”
Her brows pinch. “I should help?—”
“You already did,” I cut in gently. “You moved those hives like a champ. Let us take it from here.”
She bites her lip, clearly warring with the instinct to keep doing instead of feeling. I recognize that too well.
Then, Wyatt steps in beside me with the rest of her things, sets them quietly against the wall, and pauses long enough to look at her, then at me, before slipping back out of the room.
“Water,” I say. “You’ve been breathing smoke all day.”
I don’t wait for her to argue. I step back out, grab a bottled water from the stash in the kitchen, and return before she can stand up again. She’s still perched on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, eyes a little glassy.
“Here.” I twist the cap off and press it into her hand.
“Thank you.”
“Drink,” I insist.
She takes a long swallow, then another. Some color creeps back into her cheeks.
“You need anything else?” I ask. “Tylenol? Extra blanket?”
Her eyes widen a little. “No, I’m good.”
She glances past me, toward the window where I’m sure she’s imagining the faintest orange glow still flickering through the trees even though we’re miles away now. Her hand tightens around the bottle.
“You’re safe here,” I say quietly.
Her gaze snaps back to mine. The whole world narrows to just that look.
“You sure?” she whispers.
I square my shoulders, feeling that old, heavy vow settle into place. The same one I made over my parents’ graves.
The same one I failed to keep with Luke.
“I am,” I say. “I’ll make sure of it.”
She exhales at that.
“Thank you,” she says. “For everything you did today. For… coming for me.”
My chest tightens. “You’re our neighbor. We take care of our own.”
Her lips twitch in the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’m not sure I’ve ever really been somebody’s ‘our own’ before.”
I don’t have words for the way that hits me. So I do what I know.
“You are now,” I say simply.
