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His gaze moves from me to the doorway. I step inside, and only then does he follow.

The first thing I notice is how much space he takes up in my kitchen, even though he isn’t enormous. He’s around six feet and broad enough through the shoulders to make Tom’s shirt fit snugly, but nothing about him is oversized.

It’s the first time he’s been inside my house.

Locke stands on my linoleum and looks around. The refrigerator hums, and his head turns toward it immediately.

“Refrigerator,” I tell him.

He looks at me.

“That one can wait.”

I point toward the stairs. “Bathroom.”

He follows me up. At the top, I lead him into my bedroom, and his attention moves everywhere at once: the bed, the dresser, the windows, the doorway into the bathroom.

I try not to think too hard about the fact that the wicker man who came alive in my yard last night is now standing in my bedroom.

I point through the open door. “Bathroom.”

He follows.

The en suite isn’t large. Tub-shower combination, toilet, sink, one narrow cabinet. With both of us inside, it feels smaller than I’ve ever noticed.

Locke looks at everything while I put the iPad on the counter. “Water.”

That gets his attention.

I pull back the shower curtain and turn the faucet. He leans toward the sound.

“Water,” he says.

“Yes.”

Steam begins to rise. I hold my hand under the stream until the temperature is warm but not hot, then look at Locke.

And then I remember Tom’s clothes.

Right. Getting Locke into the shower requires getting them off him first, which means dealing with a subject I’ve been very deliberately avoiding since last night. I saw enough through the firelight to answer the broad question. Male. Since then, whenever clothing wasn’t doing the job for me, I’ve made a concentrated effort to keep my gaze above his waist.

I point toward his shirt. “Off.”

Locke looks down at himself, then back at me.

“Off,” I repeat, tugging lightly at the hem of my own shirt without actually removing it.

That’s enough. He grabs the bottom of Tom’s T-shirt and pulls it over his head without hesitation or embarrassment. Naturally, he doesn’t have either one yet. He stands bare from the waist up while I remind myself I’ve already seen this much: warm living willow, green growth at his shoulders, deeper interlacing over his chest, all of it distinctly masculine despite being nothing like flesh.

I point toward the sweatpants. “Those too.”

His glance down at them tells me exactly where the confusion is. Last night, put clothes on. Now I’m apparently changing the rules.

I gesture toward the running shower. “Shower. Water. Clothes off.”

Understanding clears his face. Locke pushes the sweatpants down and steps out of them as casually as if I’d asked him to take off his shoes.

I keep my attention on his face. I genuinely try.