Page 6

I head to my workshop, needing distance. The space has always been my sanctuary. I keep my tools organized on pegboards, equipment neatly stored, everything in its place. Here, I can focus on maintaining gear that keeps people safe. Keeps me safe.

But today, even surrounded by familiar order, my mind strays to the young woman in my guest room. The way she looked at me when I mentioned her romance novels. That defiant tilt of her chin mixed with vulnerability. She's twenty-two, for god's sake. Barely more than a kid.

I pick up a length of climbing rope, inspecting it for wear—a mindless task that usually centers me. Today, it's not working.My thoughts keep circling back to her. Sheryl. The sound of her name in my head is unwelcome.

The security panel on the wall shows all green indicators. No fire alerts. Everything safe and controlled, exactly as I've designed it.

A while later, I check my watch. Time for her oxygen levels again. Medical necessity. That's all this is.

When I knock on her door, there's no answer. A spike of alarm sends me quickly through the house, fear rising until I find her in the kitchen, staring confusedly at my coffee maker.

"Oh!" She jumps when she notices me. "Sorry. I needed caffeine for writing, but your coffee machine looks like it belongs on a spaceship."

Relief turns quickly to irritation. "You should be resting."

"I've rested enough. I need to work." She gestures to her laptop on the counter. "My publisher isn't going to extend my deadline just because I nearly burned to death."

The casual way she references what happened makes my jaw clench. "That's not funny."

"Gallows humor. How else am I supposed to process nearly becoming a tragic headline?" Her voice softens. "Sorry. I cope with inappropriateness."

I move to the coffee maker, pressing buttons with practiced efficiency. "I need to check your oxygen levels."

She extends her finger without comment, watching as I clip the device in place. 96%. Better than before.

"All good." I remove the oximeter, careful not to let our skin touch. "Coffee will be ready in two minutes."

"Thank you." She leans against the counter, studying me with those writer's eyes that seem to catalogue every detail. "Can I ask you something?"

I brace myself for questions about fire safety, about why my entire house seems designed to prevent disaster.

Instead, she asks, "Why did you offer to let me stay?"

The question catches me off guard. I could give the professional answer—medical training, sense of duty. Instead, I find myself saying, "You needed help."

"Lots of people need help. You don't bring them all home."

"No, I don't." I pour coffee into two mugs, buying time. "Cream or sugar?"

"Both, please. Lots."

I grimace as I slide the doctored coffee toward her, taking my own black. "The festival has the town full. There weren't other options."

She wraps slender fingers around the mug, looking unconvinced. "Thank you, anyway. I promise I'll be out of your hair tomorrow."

"It's fine." The words come out gruffer than intended.

We drink in silence, the quiet interrupted only by the soft ping of her email notifications. She frowns at her screen.

"Bad news?" I ask, despite myself.

"My agent. She's sympathetic about the fire but still needs chapters by next week." She sighs. "I lost important scenes in the fire. Obviously, I didn’t save them. I'm trying to recreate them, but it's not the same."

"What's your book about?" The question surprises us both.

Her cheeks flush pink. "It's a romance. About a woman who goes to a remote place to find herself and instead finds..." She trails off.

"Finds what?" I'm genuinely curious now.