Three weeks.
Three weeks and I won’t even have a home anymore.
My chest tightens again and I almost tell him to turn around.
Almost.
Instead, I sit here staring at the place like it might reject me the second I step out of the car. Like houses this nice come with some kind of invisible alarm that goes off when people like me get too close.
Shepherd parks and walks around to open my door before I can argue about it because of course he does.
“Easy,” he says gently, offering me a hand. I climb out carefully, trying not to look like I’m one light breeze away from completely losing it again.
The air smells like rain and cedar. It’s a fresh air scent that I have to admit, I really like. It’s almost like getting away from the city makes it a tiny bit easier to breathe.
He leads me inside and the warmth hits me first, then the smell.
Wood.
Saw dust.
Clean laundry.
Something faintly earthy and comforting. His place feels…lived in.
The house might look like one of those beauties you see in magazines, but this house isn’t sterile like those in pictures I’ve seen and for some weird reason, that surprises me. There’sdefinitely more of a lived-in vibe going on here. Everything looks warm and comfortable. I step inside and automatically pause, unsure what to do with myself. Shepherd takes off his jacket and hangs it by the door. “Welcome home. Uh, feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he says, his voice soft like he’s afraid of startling me.
Despite everything, I feel a small smile tug at my lips. “Are you always this accommodating?”
“Only with people who matter,” he says simply, and the words hit me like a physical touch. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
I start to say no automatically—a reflex built from years of minimizing my needs—but my stomach betrays me with a low growl. I haven’t eaten since…I can’t even remember.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says with a small smile that doesn’t make me feel judged at all.
He leads me through the living room with its oversized leather couch and into a kitchen that makes me want to cry. Not because it’s fancy, but because it’s functional in a way that speaks of actual use. There are well-worn wooden cutting boards and cast-iron pans hanging from a rack. A knife block with handles showing the patina of regular handling. It’s not a showroom kitchen; it’s a place where someone cooks real meals. I can imagine Shepherd standing in here, his sleeves rolled up, making something simple and hearty.
“You cook,” I say, sounding a bit stupid even to my own ears.
“I do.” He moves to the refrigerator with that easy grace of his, pulling out ingredients and setting them on the counter. “Nothing fancy, but I won’t poison you.”
I hover awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen, unsure where to put myself. The bandage on my hand feels suddenly enormous, like a beacon announcing my helplessness.
“Sit,” Shepherd says gently, nodding toward a stool at the kitchen island. “Let me handle this.”
Part of me wants to argue, to insist I can help, to prove I’m not useless. But I’m so tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired. So I slide onto the stool without protest, watching as he moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
“Pasta okay?” he asks, filling a pot with water.
I nod. “Anything’s fine.”
He glances at me, his eyes warm. “That’s not an answer, Sutton.”
“Pasta is—” A shimmer in the glow of the kitchen light grabs my attention and I turn my head to see what it is. Resting on the edge of the windowsill above the sink like it belongs there and has been there since time began is a tiny glass swan.
The very same glass swan Shepherd knocked over in the thrift shop a few days ago. The same swan he saved while trying not to destroy an entire aisle of fragile antiques. A warped prism of light throws the swan’s outline onto the counter, its tiny beak aimed at the ceiling like a dare. It’s so delicate it’s almost ridiculous now that I think about it. Why would a grown man, a football player, have a tiny glass swan in his kitchen window?
I walk toward it slowly, like if I move too fast it’ll disappear.
