Zoey The siren started the moment Liam crossed the threshold of my new apartment with me in his arms. I should have anticipated it. The sound was high, sharp, and continuous. Liam flinched so hard, I felt it reverberating through his arms. His grip tightened without squeezing. He froze, body locked in place, every muscle on alert, posture shifting from careful to pr epared. “That’s Markie,” I said. He looked past me, scanning the house. “What’s a Markie?” “My parrot.” The siren continued uninterrupted, volume unwavering. Liam blinked once. “Your parrot sounds... unhappy.” “That’s his baseline,” I said. “It gets worse if he thinks I’ve been r eplaced.” Liam nodded, slowly absorbing my words. I was grateful I had handled Markie’s food and water before touching a single box. That small mercy k ept his screeching at angry levels instead of apocalyptic. “Put me down,” I said. “He doesn’t like new people. Or noise. Or change. Or you being taller than the furniture.” “I can be shorter,” Liam said, bending his knees. The noise amplified. “He does not believe you.” Liam lowered me carefully, waiting until I had my balance before st epping back. I limped toward the noise, already bracing myself for the performance. Markie’s large enclosure gave him a clear view of the entry, the living room, and anyone foolish enough to think they could sneak in unnoticed. The perches rotated to prevent boredom; his toys were arranged just the way he liked them, as were his food bowls. It was the only room that looked even remotely finished. Markie stood rigidly on his perch, feathers tight, body angled forward. His attention was locked on Liam, and he was radiating hostility. “I’m here,” I told Markie. “You’re fine.” The sound cut off mid-scream, then he clicked once as he stared at me. I reached the cage and adjusted the latch he liked to pretend offended him. He leaned toward me and settled back a fraction. Behind me, Liam was still frozen in place. Markie turned his head slowly. “HOW MAY I FUCKING HELP YOU, SHITBIRD?”
Liam let out a startled laugh. He clamped his mouth shut a second too late, like he’d just realized this was not a comedy club and he was, in fact, being screamed at by an animal with opinions. His hand landed lightly against the middle of my back before I even registered he’d moved. Just one quick, warm contact. The laugh must have knocked his guard down and his body had gone looking for somewhere to put the extra energy. I went still for half a second. Ordinarily that would have annoyed me, or at least made me aware of him in a way that put my shoulders up around my ears. Instead, I liked it. The touch was brief, thoughtless, almost boyish. Or puppyish. What made it worse was that it felt natural. I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry about Markie.” “That was excellent,” Liam said, still smiling despite himself. “Direct. Efficient to scare off intruders.” Markie answered immediately. “FUCK OFF.” Then: “PLEASE HOLD, MOTHERFUCKER.” He rattled the bars hard, wings flaring, eyes locked on Liam. “RESTART YOUR SHIT.” Another rattle. Another pause. “HAVE YOU TRIED TURNING YOUR ASS OFF?” Liam’s mouth twitched as he took a st ep toward the cage. Markie exploded. “NO NO NO. FUCK YOU, SHITBIRD.” Wings hit metal. His beak cracked against the bars. The sound filled the room. I didn’t raise my voice. “Don’t.” Liam stopped mid-st ep. Markie screamed once more anyway, then slammed his beak against the metal again. Suddenly, he went completely still and tilted his head. Liam st epped back. Markie clicked, then started grooming himself. I turned and looked at Liam. He wasn’t annoyed. He was watching Markie with focused interest, like he was committing the bird’s rules to memory. “Most people try to push past that,” I said. “He told me no,” Liam said. “I respect that. Even if he had a roundabout way of saying it.” Oh boy. Liam cared about bird-consent. I was totally and completely fucked. Markie fluffed himself and turned away, no longer hostile but still quiet. As I looked from my parrot to Liam, the tightness in my chest loosened. “Well,” I said. “Congratulations. You survived first contact.” Liam nodded once. Serious. “I’ll try not to screw up the sequel.”
“He didn’t have a great first ten years,” I said. “He spent his life in a small cage. He got no enrichment from his too many owners. He learned that being loud got results.” Markie peered at us over his shoulder, clearly satisfied with the accuracy. Liam’s attention stayed on him, not the cage. “Does he ever come out?” “Yes,” I said. He glanced at me then, one eyebrow raised in question. “He doesn’t fly well,” I continued. “He never learned how. They clipped him early. By the time I got him, his balance was off and his confidence was worse.” Markie shifted his weight and clicked as if he was offended. “So he just hangs out?” “Pretty much. He supervises. He sits on my shoulder and judges my life choices.” I paused. “He also falls asle ep pressed against my neck and screams if I move.” “That sounds... terrifying,” Liam said. “He acts more like a cat,” I said. “If cats were furious and swore a lot.” Liam nodded. “You take him out every day?” “Yes,” I said. “On his terms.” Another click from Markie. “He remembers,” Liam said. “Yes,” I agreed. “He remembers everything.” I adjusted Markie’s water bowl a fraction, needing to ke ep my hands busy. I didn’t want to explain what it meant to care for something that learned survival the hard way. Markie leaned into the side of the enclosure and settled, one foot tucked up, content enough for now. The living room was full of boxes. The couch existed in theory, beneath a pile of who knows what. Liam guided me there, his hand hovering near my elbow, never touching. I hated how accurate his read on my balance was. He carefully removed my things from the couch and placed them in a neat pile. “Sit,” he said. “I don’t need n —” “Sit.” I sat. He disappeared into the kitchen without waiting for permission. I crossed my arms, irritation lining up neatly with old instincts. Being taken care of always came with a cost. There was always the expectation of future compliance or obligation. He moved through the kitchen without hesitation, clearing a space on the counter with a swe ep of his hand. Took a glass from the cabinet, paused, then chose a different one. He filled the glass and set it on the counter, then he picked it up again and brought it over, placing it on the coffee table within easy reach. He folded a kitchen towel, then set it next to the glass and propped my foot on it. I stayed like that, mostly out of spite, because I suspected he thought I’d be a shitty patient and didn’t want to prove him right.
The couch was still half wrapped in plastic, the cushions stiff. I took a careful sip of the water he’d brought me and watched him move back into the kitchen. He didn’t ask what I wanted to eat. That should have annoyed me more than it did. He opened a cabinet, closed it, opened another, paused, considered. Then he adjusted something on the counter that had not been crooked. He moved with a confidence that suggested he was used to kitchens that were not his and still took responsibility for the outcome. My gaze roved over his body. He was large. His shoulders filled the narrow space. He had to angle himself to reach the upper corner cabinet so as not to bump into things. The house seemed to accommodate him reluctantly. He pulled out a pan, then swapped it for a bigger one. He turned on the burner and waited until it responded before continuing. I shifted on the couch. This was bad. This was worse than bad. This was someone feeding me, and I was letting him. I told myself I could stop it at any point. I didn’t. I couldn’t believe I was being taken care of by a practical stranger I had met at a B&B. Why had I put him down as my emergency contact? Oh, right, he happened to be upright and competent during a moment of poor judgment. I was only now processing the humiliation of it all: the doctor asking who was staying with me; Liam answering before I could rearrange the truth into something less pathetic. She doesn’t have anyone else. A clean sentence. A useful sentence. A sentence I still wanted to fight on principle. I was old enough to know a person should have a list of people who cared about them. Someone local. Someone whose number didn’t come from a temporary card handed over after an incident at a lake. Instead, when something went wrong badly enough to require fluorescent lighting and medical supervision, all I had was Liam. Not my mother. Not a friend. It was strange for me to be the one in an emergency. Usually, I was one who handled them. I was the one who stayed clear-headed. I was the one who absorbed impact and chaos and figured out the next st eps. Emergencies were mine to manage, not mine to have. So, it was a de eply unpleasant experience for me to be in this position, sitting on my couch with my foot elevated, looking—and feeling— concussed and helpless, while a man I barely knew pr epared a meal for me. Apparently, the universe had decided I was finally going to experience the de eply cursed vulnerability of being the problem instead of solving it. He cracked eggs carefully, then stirred them. He rummaged through a box I’d cut open but hadn’t unpacked yet. He took out a jar, read the label, then shrugged and used it anyway. He moved like someone who followed instructions even when he didn’t agree with them. The savory scent hit me next, and I was annoyed that it comforted me. Liam plated the eggs with more care than necessary, then carried the plate over to me. He handed it to me, then took one full st ep back, hands loose at his sides. “I don’t like this,” I said. He frowned. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”
“I’m not talking about the food,” I said. “I mean the whole situation. Being taken care of. Sitting here while you cook in my kitchen.” “You need food,” he said. “That doesn’t change anything.” “It does tonight.” I stared at the plate of eggs and toast. It looked wrong. The eggs were aggressively seasoned, like the man had read exactly one article about the importance of salt and taken it as gospel. The toast was burnt on one side and pale on the other. I looked up at him. He was watching me patiently, looking like he would acc ept whatever verdict I handed down without argument. I hated that more than I hated the food. I took a bite. Instant regret. “Oh no,” I said, gagging. He straightened a little. “Bad?” “Worse,” I said. “This tastes like you believed in yourself too much.” He winced. “I don’t really cook much.” “That is evident,” I said. He leaned in, sniffed the plate once, then pulled back. “I can fix it.” “Do not,” I said quickly. “You’ll only make it worse.” He paused, tilted his head as if he was considering that, then nodded. “I can order something.” “I was planning to do that.” I pulled out my phone and started scrolling through to reclaim some control. “What are you ordering?” he asked. “Something that can be delivered,” I said. “Ideally made by someone who has cooked before.” He nodded again, and I saw no wounded pride on his face, just acc eptance. That did something inconvenient to me. I felt it settle low in my chest, warm and unwelcome. He had tried but failed. And he hadn’t defended himself or pretended the failure didn’t exist. He acc epted it and was working with me to make it better. That alarmed me, so I took another bite. He noticed immediately. “You don’t have to eat it.” “I know,” I said. “I’m punishing myself.” Sighing, he took the plate from me. “Also, you’re hot enough that this can be forgiven,” I said, because I was feeling risky. He blinked slowly. “Good to know,” he said, steady as ever.
“Do you want anything specific from The Saucy Panda or should I surprise you?” He looked mildly concerned. “Surprise me.” I finished the order and set my phone down. He stayed where he was, in my half-unpacked living room, waiting for food to arrive, letting me hate being taken care of without taking it personally. I gestured impatiently toward the couch, mostly because he was still standing there with that infuriating combination of patience and readiness, as if he were waiting for further instructions. He looked capable of standing there all night, which made me want to push him just to see what would happen. “Sit,” I said. He sat, but not beside me. He took the chair across the room instead, angled slightly toward me without crowding my space. Close enough for me to feel his presence, not so close to insinuate a right to proximity. Markie muttered something obscene, but his tone suggested commentary rather than escalation. Liam tilted his head. “What did he say?” “Nothing supportive,” I said. “Mostly anatomical.” “Okay then,” he said. My body settled against my will, shoulders loosening, weight sinking into the couch, muscles unclenching one by one. Traitorous body. I hadn’t authorized that response and resented it immediately. “You’re very calm for someone who just got aggressively cursed out by a bird and then had your cooking insulted.” “He set a boundary,” Liam said. “I respected it. And like I said, I don’t really cook. No offense taken.” I laughed. It slipped out, short and surprised, bypassing my defenses entirely. Annoyed with myself, I quickly pressed my lips together. He smiled in response, the look in his eyes acknowledging that something had passed between us. “It’s rare for someone to respect boundaries—even a bird’s.” I said it lightly, but I didn’t look away. “It shouldn’t be,” he said, then frowned. His attention shifted inward in a way that felt intentional, as if he were checking himself before st epping into something heavier. “I have a genetic predisposition toward action and fixing what’s in front of me,” he said. I frowned. “Genetic predisposition? As in what? You were born with a clipboard and a checklist?” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Something like that.” He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. “I’m an alpha wolf.” He put no weight on the word, just relayed information. “My instincts push me toward protecting, solving, intervening. If there’s a problem, my body wants to move before my brain catches up.” I waited. He didn’t rush to fill the space. “My father is an alpha,” he continued. “Very effective. Very certain. He believes control means protection. If he’s responsible for you, your life and your choices become his problem to solve whether you want him to or not. You have no choice but to comply.” My chest tightened before I could stop it. “I take it that didn’t end well.” “No,” he agreed. “It ended with a lot of people feeling smaller inside his circle than they ever felt outside it.”
He looked at me then. Not asking for reassurance. Just presence. “I don’t want that,” he said. “I don’t want anyone near me to feel managed. Or overruled. Protection and caring shouldn’t equal a loss of autonomy.” Something in my ribs shifted uncomfortably and all too familiarly. “So you practice. On birds?” “And people,” he said. My pulse ticked up. “I still feel the pull,” he added. “The urge to st ep in and take over. Ignoring it would be dishonest. So, I try to slow down instead and listen for the no.” “And if you hear one?” “I stop,” he said. “Even if every instinct says ke ep going. I still overst ep sometimes. I just don’t pretend it’s righteous or a God-given right.” “That sounds exhausting,” I said. “It can be,” he said. “But it’s better than the alternative.” I studied him, saw the restraint threaded through every movement. The restraint threaded through every movement. He had carried me without assuming ownership over me, fed me without demanding compliance, sat across from me instead of beside me, because I had invited anything different. All of that, despite the fact that we’d sl ept together and he’d been called as my emergency contact after one night together. “And if someone doesn’t say no?” I asked quietly. His gaze held steady. “Then I make sure they know they have the option.” That did it. Heat pooled low, unwelcome, sharp with awareness. Trust mixed with attraction in a way I didn’t like. “Boy, you’re dangerous,” I said. He nodded once. “That’s why I pay attention.” Silence settled again, heavier and charged. “That’s not what I meant,” I said. His brows drew together slightly in curiosity. He held my gaze, steady and unflinching, and I felt the weight of it settle low and slow. “Tell me what you did mean, then,” he said. I didn’t. Not right away. Because what I had meant was less about birds or boundaries or fathers, and more about the fact that he had stopped when he was told to stop. That he had listened without sulking. That he didn’t make his feelings my responsibility. That he had stayed. All of that made the ever-present tightness inside me loosen without permission. I swallowed and broke the stare first, heat curling under my ribs like it had nowhere else to go. “I’m not used to people respecting my boundaries,” I said. His brows drew together. “I hate that.”
“Yeah, so do I.” Markie muttered something profane and approving. I leaned back against the couch, my heart doing something inconvenient and loud. This was still a bad idea, but I didn’t want him to leave. The knock came sooner than expected. Three sharp taps. Liam stood immediately. He glanced at the door, then at me, checking without asking. “I’ve got it,” he said. I gave him a tired smile. “I know.” He moved toward the door with his usual careful awareness, checking the lock before opening it, then opening the door just enough to see who was there. Bags changed hands quickly. One. Two. Three. Four. Liam st epped back inside, arms full, then went back for more. Liam st epped inside and set them down on the coffee table. Then went back out for more. When he returned again, his arms were full enough that he had to shoulder the door shut. He stood there for a second, looking at the coffee table. “Are you expecting someone else?” he asked. “No.” He looked at the bags again. “Did you click the wrong thing?” “I clicked very intentionally.” His mouth flattened into a thin line, then he nodded once and acc epted it. He unpacked the bags without saying a word, stacking the containers, ignoring the plastic forks as he set the chopsticks in a neat row. Steam rose when he cracked the first lid, and the smell filled the room. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “This is more food than two people need.” “That sounds like a challenge,” I said. He smiled, small and restrained, and opened the rest of the containers. Lo mein. Fried rice. Dumplings. Chicken swimming in sauce, aggressively crispy shrimp. “Ten,” he said, counting under his breath. “You ordered ten dishes.” “I need variety,” I said. “Also, I panicked.” “That explains a lot,” he said as he headed to the kitchen to get plates. “No plates.” He froze as he took some out of a box. “No?” “We are not pretending this is a dinner party,” I said. “We are eating out of the containers.” He looked at the stack of plates in his hands, then at the containers. Then at me. “That’s... efficient.” “It’s the best way to eat Chinese food,” I said. “And it respects my limited tolerance for cleanup.”
Shrugging, he handed me a pair of chopsticks. I acc epted them and shifted on the couch, making room without inviting him closer. He sat, not quite beside me but near enough that I was acutely aware of the space between us. We ate in silence for a few seconds. “This is all really good,” he said. “I know,” I said. “This is not my first time ordering from them.” “You’ve only lived here for a few days...” “Correct.” He tried the dumplings next. Then the rice. He nodded again, approval stacking. “You were strategic in your ordering,” he said. “I was emotional in my ordering,” I said. He glanced at me, amused. “You planned for leftovers.” “Leftovers are survival,” I said. “Future Zoey will be grateful.” He took another bite and leaned back slightly, careful not to crowd me. His knee angled toward mine. Didn’t touch, which I noticed—I hated that I noticed. Markie chose that moment to contribute from the other room. “PLEASE HOLD, MOTHERFUCKER.” Liam burst out laughing before he could stop himself. Just as fast as it came out of him, it was gone. I pointed my chopsticks at Markie’s enclosure. “That’s his way of saying he approves of the menu.” “High praise,” Liam said. The food disappeared faster than it should have. He paced himself as we ate. I did not. At some point, he pushed one container closer to me without saying a word. It was the same container I k ept circling back to. His fingers brushed mine for a second. Barely there. Thoughtless. He didn’t seem to notice. I did. Which was irritating, because the contact was so casual it slipped past all the parts of me that usually tensed first, and I was able to enjoy it despite myself. When I finally leaned back, so full I was faintly offended by it, Liam’s eyes met mine. “You okay?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Food coma.” He smiled again. I rested the chopsticks on the lid and closed my eyes for a beat. The room felt occupied in a way that didn’t press on me. This was a terrible precedent. Liam stacked the containers, then put them into the fridge without rearranging everything else. He paused once, analyzing the mess that was my fridge, then continued. It was efficient and domestic, and it absolutely should not have elicited feelings inside me, but it absolutely did. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders as he moved. The fabric rode up at his back when he bent. The fridge light shone on his arms, and if the corded muscles were anything to go by, he could lift the appliance with one arm. He wiped the counter with a paper towel, folded it once, wiped again, then tossed it in the trash can. I was having inappropriate thoughts about leftovers. My phone started ringing.
I flinched so hard I nearly dropped it. The screen lit up with the worst possible words. WORK. “Shit,” I said out loud. Liam glanced over, reading my face. He didn’t interrupt. I answered on the second ring. Too fast. Guilty fast. “Hi,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I had a medical thing today, and I didn’t clock in or message and that’s on me. I should have n —” My new boss cut me off. What a way to make a first impression. “You didn’t log in,” he said. “We’re already short. You know that.” “I do,” I said. “I do know that. I had a head injury and lost consciousness, and I’m fine now but I wasn’t earlier, and n —” “This is a bad week for that,” he said. “We lost the manager. Everyone needs to st ep up.” I stared at the wall across from me. That manager’s job had been held together by duct tape and unpaid emotional labor—mostly mine. We hadn’t lost a manager. We had finally removed one. There was a difference, even if the fallout looked the same from the outside. Of course they needed more now. They always did after people stopped quietly absorbing things. When the damage surfaced, it suddenly became an emergency. “I can log on now, if you really need me to, I guess,” I said. “I can do some light tickets and manage the inbox n —” My mouth k ept offering concessions before my brain signed off on them. I couldn’t lose this job. I realized, distantly, that Liam had crossed the room. He stood in front of me now, blocking my view of the wall. He held out his hand, his demeanor calm. I looked at it, then at his eyes. He didn’t rush me. I swallowed and handed him the phone. “Hello,” Liam said. His tone had changed from the one he’d been using with me. Not loud, not aggressive, but clear and assertive. “This is Liam Beltane. I’m with Zoey. She suffered a head injury today and lost consciousness because of it. She’s currently under observation.” He fell quiet and listened to my boss. “She won’t be logging on tonight,” he said. “Or tomorrow. Concussion protocol requires limited screen exposure until symptoms resolve.” Another pause. “Yes,” he said. “I understand staffing is strained. That doesn’t change medical risk. She can provide a doctor’s note once the risk has passed.” He glanced at me once, checking in with me. I nodded. “If her condition worsens due to being pushed back to work too early,” he went on, “that becomes a liability issue for the company.” I stopped breathing. Not because he was wrong, but because he was being this firm for me.
“I’m not threatening you,” he added. “I’m informing.” Silence stretched. I could picture my boss recalibrating—he wouldn’t want the extra paperwork if something did go wrong. “Thank you,” Liam said. “We’ll check in once she’s cleared.” He handed the phone back to me and went to the sink, where he rinsed his hands, then dried them. When my boss spoke again, his tone had changed. “Rest up. Ke ep us posted.” “I will,” I said. “Thank you.” I hung up and stared at my phone for a second, then set it face down on the cushion. Liam turned back to me. The sternness in his face was gone and had been r eplaced by something warm and unguarded. I looked at him for a second longer than I meant to, then quickly looked down at my hands. They were still tense. Fingers curled slightly, like they were waiting for something else to do. Something else to fix. There was nothing. The problem had already been handled. Cleanly. Completely. My jaw tightened before I caught it. I forced it to release, flexing my fingers once against my palm. That... didn’t happen to me. Not like that. Not without follow-up. Not without someone circling back, asking for more, reminding me what I owed them. There was always a cost. I glanced up at Liam again. He had already moved on. There was no expectation radiating from him, no look that said I now owed him something. My chest loosened slightly before I could stop it. Relief. My gaze dropped back to my hands. This was how it started. Small things. Someone st epping in. Someone making things easier. And then suddenly they were inside everything. Every decision. Every problem. Every part of your life that used to belong to you. I knew that pattern. I had built my entire adult life around not r epeating it. But this didn’t feel the same. There was no pressure attached to it. No expectation sitting underneath the gesture, waiting to be collected later. Just... space. I exhaled slowly. The relief didn’t go away. It just sat there.
And, against my better judgment, I welcomed it. Liam looked at me. “Do you want dessert?” I blinked rapidly. “Yes.”