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“Don’t,” I told him.

He tilted his head. “DOG.”

I closed my eyes. “Fuck.”

“DOG.”

“We are not doing this.”

He leaned forward. “BAD DOG?”

“Yes,” I said immediately. “Very bad dog.”

Markie considered that. “DOG.”

I pointed at him. “Hush.”

He shuffled his wings and resumed cracking seeds with great seriousness.

I stared into my coffee.

It had been two days.

Two days since the worst possible combination of misunderstanding, panic, police involvement, emotional boundaries, and a very large, emotionally devastated mountain man had collided in my apartment hallway.

Two days since I had told Liam not to contact me.

The silence had been exactly what I asked for.

Which meant I could not complain about it.

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop my brain from replaying the entire situation in slow motion.

Because the more distance I put between myself and the moment, the clearer certain things became.

Liam had made a mistake—a big one—but he had also taken responsibility for it immediately. No excuses. No argument. No attempt to convince me I was wrong.

He had listened and agreed to my boundaries. He had walked away even though it clearly hurt him.

That was… not nothing.

I set the coffee on the table and leaned back into the couch.

My therapist’s voice drifted into my thoughts.

Safe people.

Notice them.

Allow access slowly.

I hated how reasonable that advice sounded.

Because the more I examined the situation honestly, the more I had to admit something uncomfortable.

Liam was a safe person—a very large, slightly obsessive, occasionally overprotective safe person, who had absolutely terrible judgment regarding apartment entry procedures.

But, still safe.