“OKAY, HOW’S THAT?” I ASK AS I RELEASE THE BUTTON THAT adjusts the angle of the mattress.

    Clyde shifts, wincing ever so slightly as he tries to getfortable on the home-care bed that’s been set up for him. “My lower back is still sore from lying in the same goddamn position all the time. I knew they shouldn’t have taken me off the morphine.”

    Bash scoffs, his shoulder propped against the doorframe of Clyde’s temporary bedroom. “Funny how a little pain brought you around to the merits of modern medicine so quickly.”

    I shoot him a re. “Can you not antagonize him for one day? I know this is your lovenguage or whatever, but I want to make sure everything is okay.”

    All I get in return is an irritated re. One I give right back. Because I’m not in the mood for Bash’s shit right now.

    I’ve stacked the pillows behind Clyde’s back, being borderline obsessive about getting him propped up just right. Since getting him through the front door, the weight of taking care of him feels… heavy. Like I signed up to care for this man who I’ve grown quite fond of, and if something goes wrong, I’ll hold myself responsible.

    If I’m anything, it’s hard on myself.

    I stand back and eye him carefully before sliding one extra pillow under his knees to take any extra pressure off his lower back.

    “Oh, yup. That’s better, I think.” Clyde’s tired eyes flutter shut, and he sinks back. He may be dramatic sometimes, but I can see the tension thates with pain and exhaustion on his features. His already weather-worn skin looks more deeply lined than usual, though the color seems to have improved in a matter of only five days.

    “It’s a miracle I’ve survived this many days post-surgery without someone propping me up with every pillow in this house.”

    I turn back slowly to face Bash, who clearly just can’t help himself.

    “Do you want me toe upstairs and get you settled as well? If you keep this attitude up, I can hold a pillow down over your face to make it stop.”

    Bash swallows roughly while continuing to re at me but says nothing.

    “Careful,” Clyde interjects with a raspy cackle, “some people are into that kind of shit.”

    Bash’s cheeks heat as he watches us impassively, otherwisepletely unfazed. “We’re gonna need toy out some ground rules for this arrangement. Because I’m already annoyed by you two.”

    “That’s aplimenting from him,” Clyde whispers conspiratorially as he leans toward me.

    I try not tough, because Bash looks serious as a heart attack when he begins to speak again. “I know this arrangement is best for everyone, so I’m tolerating it. I wouldn’t change it, but I don’t love it. This isn’t some happy-family dynamic. We’re roommates. You do your thing. I’ll do mine.”

    I do my best to nod seriously, but Bash is downright sexy. It makes me want to needle him just so he’ll crack a smile.

    I lean toward Clyde with a stage-whisper loud enough that Bash can hear. “He reminds me of Oscar the Grouch sometimes.” Then I turn back to face Bash, wanting to reassure him that I understand. “I love how honest you’re being with us about your expectations and what you need. Clearmunication will make sharing the space easier for everyone.”

    Clyde nods solemnly. “Bash, we understand. This is your trash can, and we’re just living in it.”

    Bash’s jaw twitches. “The two of you are really annoying together. Do you know that?”

    I sh him my brightest grin. “Just think of us as the two annoying kids you never wanted.”

    “Oh, pfft,” Clyde scoffs,nding a yful p on my arm. “Ain’t no way Bash is thinking about you like a kid.”

    Bash groans, and before I can even lift my eyes back his way, he’s turned and left the room.

    “Clyde, you really gotta ease off on him with that.”

    The man turns to me with a nk expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    My head tilts, and I prop my hands on my hips. “Stop ying, silly fucker.”

    “He likes it.”

    “I don’t think he does.”

    Clyde drops the pretense with an annoyed grumble as he reaches for the book I unpacked and ced on the bedside table for him. It’s aption of firsthand ounts of alien abduction and, hriously, exactly the type of literature I’d expect Clyde to consume.

    “Well, then he needs it.”

    “What?”

    He doesn’t look up—just opens the book as he responds with, “Something that makes him happy.”

    My brows furrow. “Which is what?”

    Now it’s Clyde’s turn to hit me with a head tilt. “Gwen, stop ying, silly fucker.”hr

    Once Clyde drifted off for an afternoon nap, I made my way out to the grocery store, using the card he gave me to purchase each item on the list he also provided. Of course, I identally forgot some of the less healthy items and reced them with more nutritious options.

    Clyde grumbled about it when I returned, but I just told him, “We’re taking good care of this kidney because no one else likes you enough to give you one.”

    He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. Funny, ornery old man that he is.

    Now I crack a window and get to work preparing a healthy meal—whether Clyde approves or not.

    After months in a small studio apartment, it feels good to spread out over the butcher-block countertops. Light trickles in through the expansive windows and makes the gold hardware on the green cabs shimmer. My bare feet are warm on the wide floorboards and I feel rmingly at ease in the space even though it’s all new to me.

    Bash and I cross paths briefly, wordlessly preparing food side by side without him so much as sparing me a sideways nce.

    I wish I could say the same for myself. Instead, I find myself fixating on the smell of him, willing him to look my way. To say something. To throw all that loyalty andmitment that I admire about him out the fucking window and cross a line.

    I daydream about it. Him, swiping all the chopped vegetables off the counter and lifting me onto it. Him, taking me out onto that balcony and bending me over the railing. Waiting until Clyde’s asleep and then sneaking into my room next to his. Covering my mouth with his hand to keep me quiet while he makes mee.

    But my dreams aren’t meant toe true.

    Because Bash isn’t that guy.

    His morals barely let him look at me. And maybe I should be more concerned about my own morals because, when he retreats upstairs with his sandwich while I finish making chicken noodle soup for Clyde, I’m downright disappointed.

    Dinner at the long dining room table feels strange knowing Bash is one floor above us all alone. I’m sure I don’t imagine the way the Clyde keeps checking the stairs, as though expecting to see Bash relent and join us.

    After we eat, I clean Clyde’s incision and tuck him in, rolling my eyes when he tells me to stop hovering because I’m not his mother.

    I think it’s because Clyde doesn’t make demands of me that taking care of him is so satisfying. Not once has he asked me when I n to settle down, find a steady job, or start a family. I grew up with this feeling of never being good enough, never trying hard enough. Never quite fitting in. I’m sure the unrelenting questions were my dad’s way of motivating me—it was the drill sergeant in him—but they only stifled me.

    I was—and still am—too soft to hold up under that brand of motivation. It wasn’t until I got away, saw the world, found yoga that I felt like I might actually be good at something. That I discovered passion. That I learned to love my body. That I found helping others is what fulfills me.

    It’s with those thoughts in mind that I shut the house down. I double-check the locked doors and turn off almost all the lights—I leave a few on just in case Clyde needs to get up, something he assured me he doesn’t need any help with—before I head upstairs. I look back over the living room, illuminated by the glow of the outdoor lights. Vaulted wood panel ceilings make the room feel big but not sterile. And the warm white walls make it feel airy but still rustic.

    I turn away with a soft smile touching my lips. I can so perfectly imagine Bash building this ce. It’s soothing and masculine and brimming with thoughtful touches—just like him.

    Upstairs, I enter my room and let out a dreamy sigh. My room is beautiful, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to go enjoy the space. Be still. Stare at theke. Meditate. Stretch.

    The rounded bay window with a cushioned bench makes this the bedroom of my childhood dreams. A queen-size memory-foam bed—with a door just to the right that opens to a small balcony overlooking theke—makes this the bedroom of my adult dreams. And after months of winter spent in the apartment above the yoga studio with zero outdoor living space, that balcony is where I want to be.

    It’s still early spring in the mountains, so I grab a fleece, a pair of slouchy wool socks, and my yoga mat. I slip from my room, shutting the door quietly behind me.

    The dead bolt on the outside of the door catches my attention. It gets the wheels in my head turning, specting on why Bash would possibly want to keep someone locked inside the room. Too many crime podcasts filter into my thoughts, but I shake them away, telling myself to quit being so distracted.

    But that proves to be impossible when I notice Bash mere feet away. He’s sitting out in front of his room. And until I fully stepped outside just now, I hadn’t realized the balcony runs the full width of the house.

    He doesn’t look my way. Instead, he tips his head back against the Adirondack chair, letting out a deeply tired sigh. It’s dark, but the outdoor sconces drench the deck in a warm glow. Straight ahead of us, theke moves in soft, undting waves. The soothing, steady sound of itpping against the rocky shore calls to me.

    But I know when I’m not wanted somewhere, so I begin to turn away, whispering a parting, “Sorry. I’ll go back inside.”

    I see his eyes close as he subtly shakes his head. “No. It’s fine. I’ll go.”

    “That seems silly. It’s your house. I’m intruding. I can meditate inside just as easily.”

    “Gwen. Clyde argues with me enough as it is. Can you just… not?”

    I swallow at that. Everything about Bash right now screams exhaustion, and guilt nips at me for interrupting his quiet moment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

    His head rolls along the back of the chair and his dark eyesnd on me. I try not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. “You don’t bother me, Gwen.”

    I give him my best disbelieving look. I don’t want to argue, but I also don’t buy it.

    He just sighs, turning to stare back at the water. “Not in the way you think.”

    Perplexing—that’s what Sebastian Rousseau is. Inconsistent too. His moods shift like the tides.

    “You’re confusing, you know that?” I toss my mat down, deciding to honor his wishes and stay outside. “And kind of exhausting,” I add as I take a seat and cross my legs.

    “I know” is all he says back.

    But he doesn’t leave.

    I go inward anyway, not caring if he stays and watches. It might inspire him to do a little meditating of his own. God knows that nervous system of his could use it.

    Doing my best to ignore his presence, I close my eyes, letting the sound of his breathing mingle with the echoes of the night. The hush of theke, the call of a loon, the wind slipping between the needles of the pines that surround the private lot.

    Unlike the main strip in Rose Hill, where I’ve been living, everything out here smells fresh and wild. Like amber and cedar and that bright mineral scent of rain on warm pavement.

    My breath flows, and I let the tension of the day slip away into the mat beneath me. My shoulders drop and my hips soften. My neck unlocks and—

    Why is there a lock on the outside of that door?

    Fuck my brain. It just won’t let me go these days. It’s like years of working on stilling my mind are shot because I have a crush I can’t shake. And I know myself well enough to realize the question will niggle at me. So instead of forcing myself through it, I quietly ask him, “Why is there a lock on the outside of that balcony door?”

    Several beats of silence follow my very random question. I peek one eye over at him, wondering if he’s drifted off in the few minutes of silence.

    Though that seems out of character for what I know of him. There’s something watchful about Bash. Guarded. And falling asleep beside someone who makes him as tense as I do would just be in unnatural. Fight-or-flight—it seems like I usually make him want to fly away as fast as he can.

    Unlike him, I don’t find it difficult to rx when he’s near at all, despite all the true crime podcasts I’ve consumed. In my stalwart dedication to not irritating him in his own home, I decide to let it go. Or at least try.

    I close my eyes and rest the pad of my thumb against the tip of my middle finger. I breathe again, imagining fluidly wiping a mess of writing from a whiteboard and leaving behind a shiny, clear expanse. Letting all my jumbled thoughts and feelings be wiped away—if for only fifteen minutes. Because I know it will make me feel better.

    “I thought I’d have kids.”

    Bash’s gravelly words cut through the silence and stop me in my tracks. My head turns slowly in his direction. I keep the rest of my body still, like I’m approaching a wild animal. Worried I might spook him if I do too much too soon.

    I say nothing. Instead, I just listen. Give him room to talk if he wants to.

    And he does.

    “When I built this ce, I thought I’d have kids.”

    I swallow and nod softly.

    “The room you’re staying in was supposed to be the perfect kid’s room. The bench. The window. I figured by a certain age, they’d want to use the balcony too. But then I worried that when they were small, it might be a safety issue. So I put a dead bolt on the outside so my wife or I could—”

    He trips over his own words, stopping midsentence with an irritated twist of his lips before forging ahead. “Whatever. I just figured I could lock it from the outside, then head back into my room from the shared balcony and not have to worry about a curious toddler wandering out.”

    Everything he’s saying makes so much sense. Except for the wife part—my brain trips up on that word.

    “I can take it off if it makes you ufortable. I didn’t even think.”

    I nce over my shoulder at the pewter circle adhered to the door. For some reason, that one little touch feels monumental somehow. It’s endearing to think he nned that far ahead.

    “No, that’s fine. You should keep it up for when you do have babies.”

    He snorts at that.

    “I think that ship has probably sailed.”

    “Why?”

    “I’m forty and a bachelor. And I’m not sure if you noticed, but I’m not exactly greatpany these days. The thought of wading back into the dating world is exhausting and daunting. The clock is ticking, and my options have dwindled.”

    Options. The sentiment rankles me, and I have no right to it. Pushing the feeling aside, I shimmy my shoulders, drawing my spine up tall as I stare out over the moonlit water. “I enjoy yourpany.”

    “Gwen.” He sighs my name like I exhaust him, his palm scrubbing over his stubbled jaw.

    “Oh, quit constantly ttering yourself. That statement doesn’t need to mean more than it does.” I swear I see a dimple sh in his cheek, so I forge ahead. “I just meant that I’m not put off by all your snarling.”

    He finally looks my way. “Snarling?”

    “Yes. Barking and growling too.”

    “Am I a dog now?”

    “A big, dumb one who’s been living tied to a post for too long and doesn’t know how to interact anymore? Yes. You are.”

    His cheek twitches quickly, once, before smoothing, and the responding grunt sounds suspiciously simr to a chuckle. I take satisfaction in thinking I may have lightened his mood for even a moment. I watch him raptly, his expression growing thoughtful, his gaze moving back out to the water.

    “I wasn’t always like this. It kind of snuck up on me, I guess.”

    “Well, we’re all constantly changing. Evolving. Growing. I don’t know a single person who is the same as they once were. I know I’m not. And how boring to just… know who you are and think there’s nothing more out there for the rest of your life.”

    He shrugs. “I might have changed too much.”

    I inhale deeply, a soft smile curving my lips. “Impossible.”

    Bash scoffs. “Not if you ask my ex-wife.”

    There’s that word again. I ignore the sudden tightness in my neck and jaw. Wife. But no, ex-wife.

    Swallowing, I forge ahead with something suitably vague. “Maybe she was wrong.”

    “Nah. She wasn’t wrong. And I don’t me her one bit.” He scoffs. “You know, actually, due to recent developments, maybe I do.”

    My eyes lead my head in his direction again. “Listen, I want to respect your privacy and not annoy you and all that, but I am way too snoopy to sit here and pretend that talking in code about this is the least bit satisfying.”

    Our eyes meet across the ten or so feet that separate us and my stomach flips over on itself. Fuck, he’s handsome. I never—not once in my life—had this kind of physical reaction to another person. Several beats pass, and I’m transported to a quiet corner of an airport with a handsome stranger who makes butterflies erupt in my stomach.

    That feeling of being alone with him is impossible to shake.

    “It’s not an exciting story. We got married young. It was impulsive, but we had a lot of fun. Both of us had good jobs and too much disposable ie. In a lot of ways, we were verypatible. Life was great.”

    He pauses for a few moments, then continues. “Then one day adulthood snuck up on me and I realized I wanted a family. She didn’t. We tried to work it out. For a few years, I thought I could go along with it. Thought maybe she’d change her mind. But…” He shrugs, dropping my gaze and looking off into the distance. “Resentment grew anyway. And I really wanted a family. We were at an impasse, and neither one of us was happy. So I left and built this ce as therapy, thinking maybe I’d be able to meet someone new and have it all one day.”

    I let a breath rush out through my lips. That’s… a lot. The disappointment of it. But then he hits me with the killing blow.

    “The really hrious update is that I ran into her when I left Tripp’s birthday party all those months ago. I was waiting around at the airport, hoping to get onto a flight, and bam there she was. Remarried. With a toddler. And very, very pregnant. So now I know it wasn’t that she didn’t want a family. She just didn’t want it with me. And all I’ve done is spend years licking my wounds, wishing for something I’ll never have. Too scared to even try.”

    The pain in his voice is like a spear to my chest. It aches for him.

    I ache for him.

    “You can. You should. Try, that is. You’re a catch. Someone will happily snap you up.” I work to keep my voice neutral and my face passive, but my tone feels frantic—a little desperate. Like I want him to believe me just a little too badly.

    Heughs, a t, biting chuckle. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t respond immediately. Eventually, he turns his attention my way, dark eyes boring into mine. “Turns out it’s not that easy to find a person you actually connect with.”

    My throat constricts and my mouth goes dry because I can read between the lines. Hear the bitterness in his voice. Pick up on the thing he just can’t bring himself to say. The elephant in the room that neither of us knows how to talk about.

    We connected. We had that spark. The one you can’t force. The kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And the worst part is, we both know it.

    Who knows where it could have gone? It could have been nowhere at all, but I still feel the loss of that possibility.

    Acutely.

    Tripp doesn’t have to be here for his presence to loom between us. We both know it’s there, but we don’t talk about it.

    I turn my body, rising to face him. “I broke up with him at his birthday party. Right then and there. If I had known…”

    Bash goes deathly still as I trail off. It’s almost as though he stops breathing.

    “You left me in that bathroom and—”

    “Gwen, just don’t.”

    But I don’t listen. “The way he spoke about you? The way he spoke to me? I went straight back to him and ended it on the spot.”

    “Gwen—”

    “I left,” I say, forging ahead. I want him to know. No, I need him to know. “I wasn’t even that far behind you. I thought maybe I could catch up. I tried to find y—”

    He sits up, spinning to face me, a pained look of fury on his face. “Gwen. Stop.”

    “That night something happened between us—”

    “Stop!” His harsh voice cuts through the night air, and I still, watching as he wipes a trembling palm over his mouth in frustration. “I can’t have this conversation with you. I can’t.”

    Eyes wide, I just blink back at him. He looks pained and desperate all at once. But his voice leaves no room for debate. This isn’t a conversation. It’s a demand. A plea to stop even thinking about us.

    My throat aches as the reality of our situation crashes against me in a sudden wave. It bowls me over. The sharp bite of cold water stealing all my warmth, drowning all my unfailing optimism.

    “Don’t you get it?” he implores, propping his elbows on his knees and holding his hands out like he’s begging me to understand. “Tripp might have some ring character ws—I won’t argue that with you—but he’s my son. And I’ve wanted that. Maybe not like this. But it might be my only opportunity to have even a sliver of this thing. My dad was a piece of shit. Walked out without a word and never came back. I’ve always wanted to… I don’t know…fix that wrong. Do better one day. Prove to myself that while I might have half his DNA, I’m not him. It’s why… it’s why your being here has to be for Clyde. For professional reasons and nothing more.”

    His breathing is rough as he pierces me with a scorching gaze that would normally make me squirm. Tonight, it just hurts.

    “Gwen. I can’t fuck it all up. I can’t cross that line, no matter how tempted I am.”

    His reasoning hits me like a ton of bricks. It feels as though this entire conversation has been building toward this exact moment. Like the universe is awyer presenting its case in court, slowlyying a trap that I waltzed right into.

    My breathing turns shallow, and I press my lips together to keep from saying anything. Because what is there to say? And I don’t trust my voice not to break if I speak. I hug my arms around my torso, feeling like I need to cover up, even though I’m fully clothed.

    He shifts forward, drawn toward me, and I swear he’s about to stand. But his motion stops abruptly, his fingers gripping the armrests of his chair as though holding himself back.

    He makes no other move and I’m more disappointed than I have any right to be. My eyes sting as I push to stand. The weight of having to be mature about this whole thing feels impossibly heavy, but I get to my feet all the same.

    Then I offer Bash a sad smile and a whispered, “I’m sorry,” as I turn and head back to my room.

    And he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t offer me a single other word.

    A familiar feeling stirs inside me. The one where I’m in the way or not good enough—a burden. I know it’s not true. I know that’s not what he meant.

    But I feel the sting of it all the same.

    I wash my face, telling myself the wetness on my cheeks is just tap water, then crawl into the pillowy, soft bed with a heavy heart and a busy mind. Our confrontation keeps me awake for hours. I think myself in dizzying circles. Turning every possibility between us over in my mind again and again.

    The entire mess feels monumentally unfair. Because I like Bash.

    I really like Bash.

    Unfortunately for me, I like Bash enough to keep my distance.

    It shouldn’t be too hard. I was never nning to stay anyway.