“What happened?” I ask.
“She healed,” he says simply.
The way he says it makes the hairs on my arms rise.
“That’s when I knew,” he says. “I wanted to be the person who walks into a bad situation and brings… a path out of it.”
My chest warms. “That sounds like you.”
He glances at me, a soft, surprised laugh escaping. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You were the calm one during the evacuation. For all of us.”
His eyes drop for half a second.
“What about you?” he asks. “Was it always bees?”
“Always,” I say. “Even when I wanted to be a photographer, I took pictures of bees.”
He grins. “Of course you did.”
I breathe out, letting memory wash over me.
“When I was little, my grandmother’s apiary felt like the whole world,” I say. “All those hives buzzing with purpose. If I sat still enough, I could hear… patterns.”
Wyatt watches me, listening.
“My mom helped with candles and soap,” I say. “She wasn’t passionate about the bees, but she respected them. She used to sit with me and talk about all the places she’d take me one day. Mostly the coast. She wanted me to see the ocean.”
The words leave my mouth before I can soften them, before I can tuck them back into the safe places where I keep everything that hurts, and I feel like I’ve opened a window in the middle of winter.
Wyatt’s gaze doesn’t flinch.
He just nods slowly, like he’s letting the image settle in his mind. “Did you ever go?”
I shake my head. The motion feels too small for the ache it carries. “No.”
His fingers tighten around the mug, enough to show me he’s hearing what I’m not saying. “Do you want to?”
“Yes,” I admit. The answer is immediate. Honest. “I always did. I used to tell myself it was silly, because who cares aboutthe ocean when you’ve got mountains and forests and everything you need here, but…” I swallow. “She talked about it like it was freedom. Like standing at the edge of that much water would make you feel less trapped inside your own life.”
Wyatt’s expression softens in a way that makes my chest go hot and tight at the same time. “That’s not silly.”
“I know,” I say, and my laugh is quiet, a little embarrassed. “It’s just… I’ve spent so long being careful. Staying in my lane. Doing what makes sense. Bees. Honey. Market. Home. Repeat.”
“Routine is safety,” he says gently.
“Yes.” I glance toward the living room where Jesse’s laugh rises over the kids’ shrieking, where the cabin feels crowded with life and noise and bodies. “Except right now my safety is… three men and two six-year-olds and a cabin that keeps groaning like it wants us all to leave.”
He smiles faintly. “Cabin’s got opinions.”
“It does,” I whisper, and then, because the truth is buzzing too loudly under my skin, I add, “So do I.”
Wyatt tilts his head. “Yeah?”
I nod, staring into my tea as if the swirling chamomile could give me courage. “I keep thinking about my house.”
His gaze flicks up immediately, attention sharpening. “You worried it didn’t make it?”
