It felt wrong that I was the one moving into the room next door while he was downstairs wearing grooves into his couch.
I swallowed, suddenly lightheaded.
“I, uh ... I’ll take one of the guest rooms,” I said, my voice softer than I meant it to be. I tore my gaze away from the life he’d stopped claiming and forced a smile. “Wherever you want me.”
His jaw ticced at that, something unreadable flickering over his face. Then he turned and nodded toward a door across from the primary. “This one’s empty.”
The guest room Wes pointed to was as neutral as they came—soft gray walls, simple dresser, a bed made up in plain white sheets and a navy comforter. A single lonely hanger swung in the otherwise empty closet. No art on the walls, no rug, no personality. Just a room waiting for a story.
Apparently, for now, that story was mine.
I rolled one suitcase over the threshold and set it by the dresser. The other two waited in the hall, and so did Wes, his hand still braced on the handle of the one he’d carried up.
Hayes’s voice from dinner floated back to me.He’s refusing care. Missing appointments. Firing the last three live-in nurses ... I’m just really worried about him.
Standing here, next to an empty room and an untouched primary suite, I finally understood why the care company didn’t want to send anyone else. Wes wasn’t a broken faucet you could fix with the right wrench. He was ... complicated. Hurting. And I’d just volunteered to be in the front row for all of it.
A sliver of doubt slid under my rib cage. I was good with chaos—fashion shoots, late photographers, demanding designers. I knew how to step into a disaster and make it look intentional. This, though? This was someone’s actual life.
What if I wasn’t enough?
What if I made it worse?
I glanced back at Wes, and the way he was standing just slightly off-balance, like his body still wasn’t entirely his. Then I recognized the feeling creeping over me—the same one I always got on set when everything was teetering: that moment right before I took charge.
“Well,” I said, forcing some lightness into my voice, “I guess we should lay down some ground rules. I promise not to reorganize your entire life ... on the first day.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was something. “That supposed to make me feel better?” he asked, dry as dust.
A tiny spark of satisfaction flared in my chest. “Also, for the record, there is absolutely a no-sponge-bath clause in my contract.”
This time, I got a low huff that might have been a laugh. It vanished almost as quickly as it came, but I caught it.
“Noted,” he said.
Wes stepped into the room without asking and lifted my second suitcase like it weighed nothing. Muscles flexed in his forearm, the movement automatic despite everything his body had been through. He set it down by the closet, then nodded toward the last one still in the hall.
“I’ll grab that one, and then I’ll get out of your hair,” he said. “You can ... settle in.”
For half a second, something like amusement flickered over his face. It was gone almost as quickly as it came, but I saw it.
There he was—the man who used to give Hayes endless shit and flirt with half the women at the Lantern.
Buried, but not gone.
That tiny glimmer was enough to keep my feet planted instead of bolting down the stairs and pretending this had all been a very elaborate joke.
“Thanks, roommate,” I said softly.
He paused in the doorway, his shoulders going tight at the word. “Yeah,” he murmured, not quite looking at me. “Roommate.”
Then he was gone, his uneven footsteps retreating down the hall, the house swallowing him back up.
Silence rushed in behind him.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around at my new, featureless little kingdom. Luggage busting at the seams. Four blank walls. A closed door across the hall leading to a bedroom he refused to sleep in.
Scared wasn’t a strong enough word for what I felt.
I was scared of failing him. Scared of saying the wrong thing and watching him shut down even further. Scared that this was just another way I was putting my life on hold for someone else’s.
But there was something else too. Stubbornness. The same streak that had grabbed Kit’s hand and run out of a church in a wedding dress. The part of me that refused to let his house—or his life—feel this empty if I could help it.
I lay back on the too-perfect bed and stared at the ceiling. I’d moved in with my brother’s best friend. Maybe I was out of my mind. Or maybe—for once—I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Somewhere downstairs, a floorboard creaked, and I pictured him settling onto that damn couch again.
“Okay, Wes Vaughn,” I whispered to the empty room. “Let’s see if we can get you back into your own life.”
