EIGHT
WES
I wokeup to the sound of humming.
For a second, still halfway in a dream where I had two working legs and a life that made sense, I couldn’t place it. It threaded through the house—light and aimless, drifting under doorways and across the ceiling. A cabinet door thumped shut. Something clinked against the counter.
Not my TV. Not the furnace.
Her.
I blinked my eyes open. My neck ached like I’d slept on a pile of rocks instead of the couch I’d once been proud to own. My residual limb throbbed in that familiar, pissed-off way, the shrinker twisted halfway down. A ridge from the cushion dug into my spine.
For months, the only sounds in this house had been mine—my uneven steps, the creak of the couch, the occasional food delivery at the door.
Now there was humming in my kitchen.
I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more—that the sound grated on my nerves, or that it didn’t entirely.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and stared at the ceiling fan. I had said yes. I’d stood in my own doorway yesterday and told Clara Darling she could move in.
Idiot.
Somewhere beyond the living room, water ran. A drawer slid shut. The house didn’t feel empty this morning, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
I shifted, biting back a groan as my back popped. The stale smell of sweat and takeout hit my nose, and I swore under my breath.
Perfect. Exactly how a man wanted to smell with a woman in the next room.
I’d gone months without giving a single shit what I looked like. Now, with one stubborn runaway bride under my roof, I was suddenly aware of everything—the mess on the coffee table, the dent in the couch, the fact that I hadn’t shaved in days.
I hated that. Hated that I cared. Hated that there was someone here to care for.
This was my house. My space. I’d built damn near every inch of it with my own two hands, and yet lying there on the couch, listening to her move around, I felt like an intruder in my own life.
I forced myself upright, every muscle in my back protesting. The shrinker had twisted in my sleep, digging into skin that already felt flayed. I reached for my liner and prosthetic, hands clumsy with sleep and irritation.
Putting the leg on was second nature by now, but it still wasn’t fast. Roll the liner. Adjust. Lock in. Check the fit. I’d done it in under a minute in PT before, but lying on my couch with someone else in my kitchen, it felt like trying to assemble myself under a timer.
Any second she could walk in and find me half put together. The thought made my jaw grind.
When everything was finally attached and as comfortable as it was going to get, I pushed to standing. The room tilted for a heartbeat, then settled. I grabbed the back of the couch until my balance caught up with me and then made my slow, uneven way toward the kitchen.
Clara was there, of course.
She stood barefoot at the counter, tiny pajama shorts showing a ridiculous amount of toned leg, a loose T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. The T-shirt was thin enough that her nipples were on full display, hard points against worn cotton.
Her hair twisted up in a knot. No makeup. No armor. Just soft skin and sleep-warm curves and absolutely no awareness of what she looked like in my kitchen. My body woke up and took notice, heat sparking low and unwelcome.
“Good morning,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. Her voice was easy, like we’d been doing this for years.
“Morning.” The word came out stiff, like I’d forgotten how to use it.
A coffee maker gurgled on the counter between us. She turned back to it, poured herself a mug, then hesitated for half a second before grabbing another and filling that one too. She didn’t look at me as she set it on the opposite side of the counter.
“There’s some if you want it,” she said, like it was an afterthought. Not an offer. Not caretaking. Just information.
I hated how much I wanted it. Hated how the smell alone made something in my chest unknot a fraction.
