Or maybe trying not to.
“You found it,” he says finally, voice low, rougher than I remember.
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice softer than I want it to be. “Hard to miss.”
My gaze drifts around the space again, then back to him.
“You built it.”
It’s not a question.
Something flickers in his expression.
Gone before I can name it.
“Yeah,” he says.
That’s it.
Just yeah.
Like it didn’t take years.
Like it didn’t take everything.
Silence stretches between us again, thick and loaded with everything we’re not saying.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how small I feel in this big, open space.
“So, um, where am I staying? Spare room?” I ask, because I need something—anything—to anchor this moment before it swallows me whole.
His jaw tightens, just a little.
“Yeah.”
Another beat passes.
Then he jerks his chin toward the hallway.
“Room’s down there. First door on the left.”
I blink.
“But that’s the main bedroom. It’s yours, isn’t it?”
Something sharp flashes in his eyes.
Then it dulls.
“Yeah. Only finished room in the house.”
I hesitate.
“Then where are you going to sleep?”
His gaze snaps back to mine, something unreadable moving through it—something heavy.
“Don’t worry about it. Just go to sleep, Ezzy.”
