Zoey
My new apartment had settled into its night shape, with the lights dimmed and sounds reduced to small clicks
and the hum of the plumbing.
Even Markie had gone quiet, which never meant asle ep so much as saving his energy for later judgment.
Liam stood near the couch with his hands folded loosely in front of him, posture easy, attention sharp. He had
that look again. The one that said he had already decided something and was now just waiting for the polite
window to explain it.
“The doctor protocol says I need to wake you every few hours,” he said.
“Just to check in.”
I blinked at him. “I’m fine.”
“I know.”
“You do not need to babysit me.”
“I’m not.”
I stared at him. He stared back. He did that thing he was always doing where he didn’t rush the silence, like it
didn’t make him itchy or make his skin crawl.
“I’ll sle ep on the couch,” he added. “I won’t be in the way.”
There it was. The offer that wasn’t an offer. The solution was too reasonable to argue with without sounding
ungrateful or unhinged or both. I had secretly thought he was placating the doctor and would leave me to myself
tonight.
The vulnerability I had allowed myself during the day was one thing.
But nighttime brought on a different level of vulnerability that I was simply not ready for.
My chest tightened.
It wasn’t even Liam himself that was doing anything wrong. That was the worst part. It was just the shape of
it. The way care slid so easily into occupation. The way help, once acc epted, tended to grow roots and expectations
and invisible ledgers I never agreed to ke ep.
If I let him stay tonight, what did that buy him tomorrow?
Nothing, the rational part of my brain said. Liam hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t hinted. He hadn’t even
st epped closer.
But another part of me, older and sharper, k ept track of patterns instead of promises, and it whispered
incessantly to me.
People who took care of you always wanted something later. Time.
Gratitude. Emotional access. Compliance. Even the good ones eventually reached for their return on
investment.
I hated that part of my brain.
“You really don’t have to,” I said, my voice softer now.
Liam nodded. Not offended. Not wounded. “I want to,” he said. “But I can leave if you say so.”
That landed harder than it should have, because I could tell he meant it.
And because he wasn’t already reaching for the door or the couch or me.
Because he had put the choice down between us and st epped back from it.
I swallowed.
“Thank you,” I said. And this time I meant it. Thank you for caring.
Thank you for not making it loud. Thank you for not making it transactional.
He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then inclined his head, like he’d acc epted a responsibility
and didn’t expect a reward.
Markie picked that moment to clear his throat. “GOODNIGHT ASSHOLES.”
“Sweet dreams, Markie,” I said.
“DIE SLOW,” the bird r eplied warmly.
I pushed myself up carefully and grabbed my crutches. Liam moved without thinking, then stopped himself
and let me do it. He was ready to help me, but he wouldn’t intervene until I asked.
I hated that my chest did that thing again.
In my room, I slowly changed into my pajamas, then brushed my teeth.
Every small routine felt louder than usual, like my body was checking to see if I was really safe enough to
relax.
I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my waist. The mattress dipped in all the familiar ways. My new
room already smelled like me, which helped me settle.
Down the hall, the couch creaked once, then everything fell silent again.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Gratitude pressed in on me, heavy and warm and terrifying. Was this what it felt like to be cared for without
the expectation of reciprocity? And why was the thought of it disappearing even scarier? No, no, nope. I had to
detach.
I didn’t know what Liam would expect of me when I was better.
I didn’t know what I would expect of myself.
All I knew was that, for tonight, someone was ke eping watch without demanding proof that I deserved it. I
would let him, for now. From a safe distance.
My eyes finally closed, and despite myself, I sl ept.
By noon the next day I had been relocated three times.
Not against my will, though. Every transfer had in volved consent, negotiation, and me pretending I was above
all of it.
The first time, I insisted I could make it from the couch to the kitchen on my own.
“I’ve had sprains before,” I told him, already bracing on the armrest.
“You also have a head injury now,” Liam said.
“I’m aware of my skull.”
He watched me stand. Watched me wobble. Watched me refuse to acknowledge either of those things.
I made it two st eps before the room tilted, reminding me that gravity was not a suggestion. My concussion was
apparently not playing.
Liam didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t even look smug. He just st epped forward and put one hand lightly at
my waist.
“May I?” he asked.
I glared at him. “Yes.”
He picked me up like I weighed nothing. One arm under my knees, one behind my back. My body reacted
before my pride did. I went soft and
relaxed, and my hand fisted in the front of his shirt to steady myself.
His chest was solid under my palm. I could see the faint scar near his collarbone that I hadn’t noticed the night
we met.
“This is unnecessary,” I informed him.
“You’re doing great,” he said.
That was not the reaction I had expected.
He carried me to the kitchen and set me down on a chair with the kind of care that suggested he was handling
something fragile and valuable.
I hated that my throat tightened.
I also hated that I wanted to stay right there in his arms for one more second.
By early afternoon I was steadier on my crutches, and he had decided the bathroom needed to be cleaned “for
infection control,” which felt suspiciously like an excuse to reorganize something.
“It’s fine,” I said from the hallway, leaning on my crutches. “It’s a bathroom. It’s seen worse.”
“It’s dusty,” he r eplied.
“It’s lived-in.”
“It’s dusty.”
He rolled up his sleeves and reached for the cleaning supplies, then he took off his shirt.
I gaped at him. “Is that medically required?”
He folded the shirt neatly and set it on the counter. “It seemed practical.
Don’t want to get my shirt dirty.”
Practical.
“I—” The man was built like a mythical force that had decided to settle down and pay taxes. Broad shoulders.
Defined back.
I leaned harder on my crutches and told my face to behave.
“Try not to objectify me,” he said mildly, not turning around.
“I’m not n —” “You just stopped talking mid-sentence.”
“I was considering your dusting technique.”
He glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Mm.”
Heat cr ept up my neck. “I thought you were a wolf,” I said. “Not a domestic cleaning service.”
He wiped down the sink with calm precision. “Wolves maintain their territory.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a justification.”
“It is.”
I watched the muscles in his back move as he reached higher along the mirror. It was de eply unfair that
someone so competent could look so hot while holding a bottle of disinfectant.
“Are you done supervising?” he asked.
“I’m conducting quality control.”
He turned then, meeting my gaze fully. “Your quality control seems very attentive.”
I refused to look away first. I also refused to acknowledge the way my stomach flipped. “I appreciate
thoroughness.”
I shifted my weight, trying to look casual and not like a woman actively watching a shirtless man clean her
bathroom. One of my crutches caught the edge of the doorframe, and I swore under my breath.
“Careful,” he said, glancing over.
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.”
“It’s part of my brand.”
He moved toward the cabinet, and I realized too late that I was standing directly in front of it.
“I need something behind you,” he said.
“I can move.”
“You don’t have to.”
He st epped closer—not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel him there. The air between us
shifted and narrowed. My grip tightened on the crutches before I could stop myself.
“You’re crowding me,” I said quietly.
“I’m reaching,” he said, just as quietly.
His arm rose beside my shoulder. His chest brushed the side of my crutch instead of me.
He knew exactly what he was doing, and knowing that, my pulse kicked hard.
He leaned in slightly, enough that his shoulder blocked the light for a second, and his scent hit me.
God, he smelled so good.
I stayed perfectly still.
“So,” I said, voice thinner than I wanted, “this is part of the dusting protocol?”
“Very advanced technique,” he murmured.
He’d found what he needed behind me, but he didn’t move away, and in that instant, I noticed everything
about him.
The line of his throat. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way he waited instead of pressing forward.
He pulled back slowly and straightened. “There,” he said. “Got it.”
I exhaled, which felt like a mistake. “Did you just flirt with me while holding cleaning supplies?”
He gave me a sly smile. “I might have.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“You were staring.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I was observing.”
He nodded seriously.
I rolled my eyes, but the heat stayed put, low and persistent.
He st epped back toward the sink, giving me room again like nothing had happened, which somehow made it
worse.
I watched him work for another second before realizing I was smiling. I stopped immediately, but not before
he saw my reflection in the mirror. He returned my smile, then went back to work.
By mid-afternoon, boredom set in.
Being injured was de eply unglamorous. There was only so much staring you could do at your home before
you began to resent the architecture.
I pushed myself up carefully and started toward the bookshelf.
“Zoey,” Liam said from across the room.
I k ept going.
“Zoey.”
“I’m getting a book.”
“Don’t lie.”
I made it three st eps before he was in front of me, one hand hovering near my elbow without touching.
“Sit,” he said.
“I’m not a labrador.”
“You’re concussed.”
I sighed dramatically and let him guide me back to the couch.
“Which book?” he asked.
“I thought you were a wolf,” I said. “Not a dog.”
He considered that. “I’m very good at fetch.”
That caught me off guard.
“Oh,” I said. “So, you’re leaning into it.”
“I’m the best at fetch.” He radiated confidence.
“Prove it.”
He folded his arms. “Name it.”
I scanned the room. “Third shelf. Blue spine. Slightly pretentious title.”
He turned and pulled it down after barely glancing at the shelf.
I narrowed my eyes. “Okay. That was lucky. Now get me the thin one with the torn dust jacket from the box
labeled ‘office but make it sad.’” He found that, too. Even I hadn’t known where that box was.
“Impressive,” I admitted.
He handed it to me, then waited.
I squinted at a stack of unopened boxes. “There’s a mug in there with a chipped handle and a swear word on it.
I want that, please.”
He crouched, opened the correct box, and held it up without comment.
I leaned back against the cushions. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
I laughed despite myself.
Later, when I insisted on helping, he compromised by lifting each item out of a box and holding it up for my
approval.
“Desk lamp,” he said.
“Office.”
“Framed photo.”
“Office.”
“Stack of unopened mail.”
“Burn it.”
He gave me a look.
“Kidding,” I said. “Office.”
He moved through the room steadily, rearranging furniture to clear a path wide enough for my crutches,
plugging in my monitor, setting my keyboard exactly where my hands would land naturally.
“You don’t have to do all of this,” I said quietly as he adjusted my chair height.
“I know.” He st epped back and surveyed the space.
My office. Functional, ready. Mine.
He had done it without asking for credit. Without turning it into proof of anything.
Gratitude rose inside me again. Heavy. Complicated.
“What are you going to expect from me when I’m better?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked at me in surprise. “Nothing.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is for me.”
The steadiness in his tone made my chest ache. He crossed the room and crouched in front of me so he could
look into my eyes.
“I’m not ke eping score,” he said. “I’m here because I want to be.”
The urge to believe him was almost painful. I swallowed and nodded once.
“Okay,” I said.
He stood and offered his hands. “Bathroom?”
I hesitated before putting my hands in his and letting him pick me up again.
I fit there, in his arms, too easily.
And for the rest of the day, I let him fetch and carry, hover and adjust.
I told myself it was temporary, that I didn’t owe him anything, that we were just two people who’d connected,
and it didn’t have to be anything more than that right now.
And somewhere between the dusting and the desk lamp and the chipped mug, my heart stopped bracing so
hard.
The light began to change, telling me night was approaching. It was a subtle shift, where the gold of the sun
thinned and the shadows in the room softened. Evening was slipping in whether I liked it or not.
I noticed it because I was watching the way it caught in Liam’s hair as he stood by the bookshelf, and I
immediately resented that fact.
The doctor’s protocol technically ended tonight.
Last night, Liam had woken me every two hours. Asked me orientation questions with a straight face.
Watched for symptoms. Hovered without
smothering. Carried me when I let him. Backed off when I didn’t. And he’d basically cleaned and organized
my whole apartment.
At some point, distantly, it occurred to me that I had not actually asked how he was able to do any of that.
He had a job. Responsibilities. A place he was supposed to be that was not here. And yet he had been here, and
he hadn’t made it feel like a sacrifice I needed to account for.
My stomach tightened slightly. I knew what it looked like when someone k ept showing up like that and no one
stopped them. I knew how easy it was to let it happen. To acc ept the help. To focus on what you needed in the
moment and not what it cost the other person to give it.
I had spent most of my life on the other side of that equation. Was I acting like my mom?
The idea that I might be st epping into that now, even a little, made my chest pull tight.
Never.
I r epositioned myself on the couch, pressing my fingernails into my hand to ground the thought before it could
spiral any further.
That wasn’t what this was.
He had chosen to be here. He had made that clear in every possible way.
I hadn’t asked for any of it. Much less expected it.
Still, the awareness lingered.
But he would be leaving this evening. That thought didn’t bring full relief like it should have. There was some
relief, but it was mixed in with a host of other emotions, like some sort of fucked-up emotion soup. Emotions like
sadness and grief.
I shut it down immediately.
He should leave. He had a life. A job. A whole supernatural ecosystem I barely understood. This was
temporary.
Life had to go on.
We still had a few hours.
I glared at the situation unfolding at the bookshelf. This I could handle.
Fuck all that emotional nonsense.
“You’re doing that wrong,” I told him.
“I am not,” Liam r eplied calmly.
He was on his knees beside the lowest shelf, stacking my books into tidy piles. He had removed everything
and was now reorganizing it with the
seriousness of someone handling classified material.
“You’re ignoring the obvious system,” I said.
“Color is not a system.”
“It’s a perfectly valid system.”
“It is aesthetic chaos.”
“It is curated.”
Bobbi sat cross-legged beside him, chin in her hands, pure delight on her face as she observed us.
“He’s using the Dewey Decimal System,” she informed me. “That’s what libraries use.”
“This is not a library,” I said. “This is my house.”
“It’s a very efficient system,” Liam said, sliding a book into place with precision.
“It looks like a spreadsheet.”
“That’s the point.”
Markie shifted on his perch and watched the proceedings with narrow- eyed suspicion.
Bobbi leaned closer to Liam. “How do you know the numbers without looking them up?”
“I remember them,” he said.
She gasped. “Why?”
He paused. “It’s useful.”
“That is fascinating,” she said with complete sincerity.
I watched the two of them, the massive shifter and the eleven-year-old interrogator, bent over my bookshelf
with identical intensity, and my heart made a slow, complicated turn.
The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched longer.
I told myself again that this was ending tonight. That I was okay with that; that it was good, even.
Bobbi broke the silence. “Zoey says you’re a shifter.”
Liam went still for half a second before he answered. “Yes.”
She scooted closer. “What kind?”
“Wolf.”
Her eyes widened in open awe. “That is significantly cooler than being human.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Humans have advantages.”
“Such as?”
“You have opposable thumbs all the time.”
She considered that seriously. “That’s true.”
I tried very hard to look bored.
“My brothers and I play shifters sometimes,” Bobbi added. “My older brother and my younger brother are
always bears because they think that means they get to tackle people. I’m a cat.”
Liam’s mouth twitched. “Why a cat?”
Bobbi looked faintly offended by the question. “Because cats are elegant. And they don’t have to listen.”
She had a point there.
“Can you shift right now?” Bobbi asked.
“Bobbi,” I said.
“What?” she said. “I’m curious.”
Liam looked at me, the question hanging in the air between us. I should have said no. My nervous system was
already walking a tightrope.
But I wanted to see.
God, I really wanted to see.
“It’s your house,” he said softly.
Bobbi clasped her hands together. “Please.”
I exhaled slowly. “If you break anything, I’m billing you.”
Liam stood.
There was no drama to it. No glow. No cinematic swirl. Just a change in posture, in focus. His body moved
with controlled precision. Bones adjusted beneath skin. It should have looked wrong, but it was beautiful.
His height folded into a new form. Broad shoulders restructured into something equally powerful but lower to
the ground.
And then he was a wolf.
A massive, sleek wolf with thick fur that caught the last light and held it. The eyes were sharp, intelligent, and
unmistakably Liam.
To say he was beautiful was inadequate and de eply unfair. He was magnificent.
Bobbi didn’t scream. She leaned forward and whispered, “Oh.”
Markie fluffed his feathers.
Liam lowered his head slightly, watching us both.
I forgot to breathe for a second—not from fear, but from the sheer physical reality of him. I could see the
strength in the line of his back, the quiet alertness in the way he held himself. This creature, this ancient mass
of instinct wrapped in muscle and fur, had been making me tea this morning.
Bobbi crawled a little closer. “Can I touch you?”
Liam looked at me again.
“Gentle,” I said.
Bobbi extended her hand and carefully ran it along his side. “Oh, you’re very soft.”
His tail wagged, and I couldn’t help but grin.
Then, before I could pr epare for it, he crossed the small bit of space between us and pressed against my leg,
his fur warm along my shin and thing.
I stilled.
He rubbed against me, his shoulder bumping my hip slightly, then he turned his head and pressed his face into
my hand.
“Oh my god,” Bobbi whispered.
I looked down at Liam. This should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. A giant wolf shifter was rubbing
against me like an affectionate, overgrown pet.
He nudged my palm again, and I let my hand slide over the side of his neck. He shamelessly leaned into my
touch. When I scratched lightly behind one ear, his whole body loosened, like I had found the right button, and he
was not remotely embarrassed about it.
I should have hated how much I liked that.
Something in me melted with horrifying speed.
“There it is,” Bobbi said softly. “He wants pets.”
“I can see that,” I muttered.
Liam answered by pressing his nose briefly against my stomach, then angling his head back into my hand with
deliberate insistence. Apparently, the wolf version of him had given up on restraint entirely and decided this was
happening.
A soft sigh, which I was completely embarrassed by, fell from my lips.
His tail wagged again.
Ugh.
Still, I k ept stroking him, moving my hand down the strong line of his back and up to his neck again, to the
spot he seemed to like best. He stayed pressed to my side, huge and solid and weirdly pleased with himself.
Markie leaned forward on his perch. “DOG!”
Liam’s head snapped toward the cage.
Bobbi’s eyes widened. I stared at my bird.
In an instant, Liam shifted back, his bones reassembling into the tall, solid man I had been trying not to fall for
all day.
“I’m not a dog,” he said evenly.
Bobbi blinked. “You’re a wolf.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a kind of dog.”
“It is not.”
Markie tilted his head, unbothered. “DOG.”
Huffing, Liam crossed his arms over his chest, which didn’t help me to take him seriously. “I outrank dogs.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
Markie clicked. “STAY.”
Liam clenched his jaw. The silence that followed stretched thin and ceremonial, as though some ancient ruling
had just been handed down by a very small, feathered monarch.
Bobbi leaned forward, eyes bright. “You have to. He said it.”
“I absolutely do not,” Liam said.
Markie didn’t blink, but he did lean forward slightly and said, very clearly, “STAY BITCH.”
Bobbi gasped in utter delight.
My brain short-circuited, and I struggled really hard not to giggle.
Liam’s nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”
“STAY,” Markie r epeated, louder. “DOG.”
Liam lasted three seconds.
I counted.
One. Two. Three.
Then he went completely still, obeying the bird’s command.
Bobbi clapped her hands. “That’s good.”
I pressed my lips together so hard they hurt. “You just obeyed my parrot.”
“I’m in his territory,” Liam muttered without moving a single muscle.
“There are politics.”
“Politics,” I echoed, stifling a grin.
Markie puffed up, feathers slightly flared. “GOOD DOG,” he announced. “SYSTEM STABLE.”
Bobbi covered her mouth, vibrating with joy. “He promoted you again.”
Liam closed his eyes briefly, as though reconsidering every decision that had led him to this living room.
“I am de eply offended,” he said.
“Are you though?” I asked.
His gaze slid to mine, but he failed to ke ep up the pretense of having any dignity left. “Yes.”
“You did what he said.”
“That was strategic. I’m playing the long game with Markie.”
Markie leaned forward again. “HEEL.”
Liam froze.
Bobbi whispered, “Oh my god.”
Markie cocked his head. “RESTART YOUR SHIT.”
I lost it. A laugh burst out of me, loud and uncontrolled.
Bobbi nodded solemnly at Liam. “You have been categorized.”
Liam exhaled through his nose. “I dislike this hierarchy.”
Markie settled back on his perch, entirely pleased with himself. “DOG.”
Liam crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.
I laughed again, feeling weirdly content. The sun was setting, and my shifter caretaker had just been
categorized as a dog by my foul-mouthed bird. Liam was still here, and he would be for a few more hours.
Some of that contentment faded, because de ep down, if I was brave enough to admit it to myself, I wasn’t
ready for him to leave.