22. 22 #2
“You want to come in? You don’t have to. I know you wanted to head home—”
“Sure,” he cuts in, without hesitation. “Anything to see that little fluff ball again.”
Right. Sprinkles. Of course. Not because he wants to do something incredibly stupid, like…
hang out with me. Get a fucking grip, Zoe.
You’re thirty-six. And we’ve already established that he’s too young.
For starters, I’ve never had a male friend that isn’t gay.
Shoutout to Jeff, the only man who’s ever held my hair back during a blackout and called me a queen the next morning.
Correction, my only male friend. My social circle used to be full of women who brunched with one hand and signed contracts with the other, not…
mechanics who smell like petrol and ruin my brain chemistry with one grin.
It’s like the second I stepped foot in Wattle Creek, every rule I had about my life—about me —got rewritten. I open the door, and like she’s been waiting for him all night, Sprinkles bolts down the hallway and plants herself at his shoes with a high-pitched meow.
“Sprinkles! There’s my girl.” He grins, scooping her up with one arm and launching straight into a ridiculous baby voice. “Who’s my favourite chaos gremlin? You are. You are.”
I lean against the counter for a second longer than I should, caught off guard by the sight. It’s stupid—ridiculous, even—but there’s something about seeing him like this, all easy smiles and unguarded affection, that hits me somewhere I don’t want to name.
“You want a drink?” I ask, but I’m already walking toward the fridge because I need something to do.
“Just water, please.”
I grab two bottles and, without thinking, toss one over my shoulder. There’s a soft thwap as he catches it mid-air. One hand. While still holding the damn cat. Show-off.
He gently sets Sprinkles down—she meows in protest, obviously—and twists the cap open… but he doesn’t drink. He’s staring. Brow furrowed. Bottle frozen mid-air.
“You’re leaving?”
I follow his line of sight. Oh . The suitcase beside the couch. My spine straightens. “No.”
Michael doesn’t look convinced. “Then why’s it out?”
I hesitate, and I hate that I do. “I… emptied it out yesterday.”
There. It’s out. Said aloud. No takebacks.
The words taste strange. Like something has finally clicked into place.
After everything—after the panic attacks, after the cat, after Imogen’s forced kindness and Michael’s maddening patience—I unpacked.
Properly. For the first time since arriving, everything I own is put away.
Hung. Folded. Tucked into drawers that used to feel like they didn’t belong to me.
Because maybe—just maybe—I’m letting this place belong to me.
“So you’re staying?” His voice is gentler now. Like he’s asking something bigger than what it sounds like.
“I guess so.” I press my palms to my thighs. “I mean, who else is going to put up with that little demon over there?”
As if on cue, Sprinkles starts scratching at the curtain. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t love her.”
“I don’t need to act. It’s just the truth.” Which is a lie. Kind of. I’m… tolerating her. But I won’t say it.
“Mhm.” He’s grinning now. “We’ll see about that, Freckles.
” I hate that nickname, but God help me, I think it’s starting to grow on me.
His face lights up when he says it, and I don’t know what unnerves me more—that he keeps using it, or that some twisted part of me likes the sound of it coming from him.
He shifts slightly, and suddenly all humour is gone. “Can I ask you something?”
Every nerve in my body tenses. That sentence has never once led anywhere good. It’s a prelude to a hard truth. A pivot point I usually don’t want to take. Still, I nod.
“What made you come to Wattle Creek?” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Or should I say… come back?”
Come back ? Hm. I can’t help the way I feel as though I’ve never truly belonged anywhere long enough to return to it.
I look away from him, crossing my arms, then dropping them again because I hate how defensive it makes me seem. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear instead, even though it doesn’t need adjusting. How do I answer this?
I could lie. I could deflect. But then I look at him—at the way he waits, steady and patient—and for some reason, I want to say something real. “I needed a reset. I didn’t want to be in Sydney anymore. Too many… reminders of shit I didn’t want to be reminded of.”
Well, that’s one way of putting it lightly.
My gaze drifts to Sprinkles, then to the suitcase by the couch. I rub absently at my left ring finger. It’s muscle memory at this point. That bare skin used to carry weight. Now it just itches.
The rings were the first things I took off when I left Sydney. A symbolic gesture, maybe. Or just a desperate one. Either way, they’re gone—and I still can’t stop touching the spot. A habit.
One that needs to be broken.
I keep my focus on the water bottle in my hand.
The condensation. The click of my nail against the cap.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares at my hand.
My finger. His voice is low when he speaks next.
“If I didn’t know any better…” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly, “I’d say something used to be there. ”
I still. My thumb drops away from the spot like I’ve been caught with a knife pressed to my own pulse. “Not anymore.” Those two words come out dry. Brittle.
Michael’s jaw ticks. That tell-tale little muscle works overtime as he studies me. He leans a hip against the back of the couch, arms still folded loosely across his chest. I can tell he’s trying not to push. But the question’s already on the tip of his tongue.
“Is he the reason you’re here?”
I glance up sharply.
“Did he…” His voice catches, just briefly. His brows pull in the slightest. “Did he do something to… hurt you?”
There’s a strange little flare in his tone. Quiet, sure. But tight. Why does he care? I blink, lips parting like I might ask him that. Demand it, even. But instead, all I do is exhale.
“No,” I lie. Then—because something in the set of his jaw shifts, and because I can’t stand the way that word tastes in my mouth—I correct myself. “Yes. Kind of.” I hesitate. “It’s… complicated.”
That gets a reaction out of him. His expression changes—softening and hardening all at once.
Because how do you explain the slow decay of something you thought was built to last?
How do you summarise years of being ignored, abused, dismissed, made to feel like you were always too much or not enough?
That it wasn’t one explosive event, but a hundred tiny little fractures you didn’t notice until you were already in pieces.
“Zoe.”
Those two syllables roll off his tongue with so much weight I nearly flinch.
I snap before he can continue. “You don’t need to say anything I don’t already know.
I walked away,” I mutter, more bite in it than I mean.
“And that should’ve felt like freedom. But it didn’t.
Not right away. I don’t need any more judgement than I’ve already copped. ”
His eyes widen with what looks to be a mix of shock and confusion. Hurt, maybe? He takes a step back, as if to give me space, but then steps forward again.
“I’m sorry… but what part of anything I’ve said sounded like judgement?”
My chest tightens.
“Let me rectify that real fucking quick,” he continues. “I am not here to judge you, Zoe.”
My name again. He says it with that gruff, almost reverent edge that makes something throb low in my chest. I hate it. I hate how much it affects me. And yet, I notice it. I cling to it.
Not ‘Freckles.’
Not ‘love.’
And yet… he did call me ‘love.’ Once. Earlier tonight. A term you don’t just throw at someone unless it means something—or you want it to. Unless it slips out because part of you wants it to stick.
“You walked away. That doesn’t make you broken. That makes you someone who saved herself.”
I freeze. Because no one has ever said it like that. And the worst part? It doesn’t feel like I saved myself. It feels like I ran. Well, I guess that’s because I literally did.
Why does it feel like I failed?
Like I stood at the edge of something I promised to weather, and instead of fighting to fix it, I turned my back and walked away.
Even if that something was rotting from the inside out.
Even if staying meant losing myself completely.
Saving yourself is meant to feel brave. Empowering.
Liberating. But all I felt, deep down, was small.
Fractured. And now his words burn. Not because he’s wrong, but because part of me wants to believe him.
And that pisses me off more than anything.
I look at him, jaw tight. “You don’t get to say things like that.”
“What? That I’m not judging you? Because I’m not.”
“No. That I’m not broken.”
His gaze sharpens. “But you’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve seen broken,” he says, voice like gravel now.
“And I’m not gonna stand here and pretend I know everything about what you’ve been through.
I don’t. I’m not asking for it.” He takes a beat.
His eyes flick to my hands, then back up again.
“But I know what it feels like. To think you’re past saving.
To feel like no one sees you unless you’re being useful. Or quiet.”
My stomach twists. Something flickers at the base of my spine. Recognition. Maybe even understanding.
“You’re not broken, Zoe,” he says again, softer this time. “You’re just… stuck. At an impasse.”
An impasse?
Something about that word sticks in my brain. Like he’s naming the thing I’ve been avoiding. Like he’s peeled back a layer I didn’t even realise I was hiding under. He’s not trying to fix me.
He’s not even trying to help. He’s just seeing me.
“I have a habit of pushing people away.” My voice drops as I speak.
He shrugs. “Then push. If that’s what you need.”
That throws me, and my brows pull together. “What?”
“You heard me.” His tone softens. “You can push, Zoe. Shove, snap, bolt, do whatever it is you think you have to do. I’m not gonna take it personally.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re not?”
“Nah.” He grins. “I’ve been called worse than whatever you could throw my way.”
That pulls a breath of a laugh from me, unbidden. The kind that makes my ribs ache in the best kind of way. Goddamn him.
“But just so you know,” he adds, his tone more serious now, “there are decent people out there. People who give a shit for no reason other than the fact that you exist.”
“I don’t need anything from you, Zoe,” he continues. “I’m not here to save you. Or fix you. Just know that I’m here.”
“As a friend.” It’s not a question. Just a quiet agreement. A truce drawn in the silence between us . “I’m not looking for anything. Not now. Not… probably ever.” I add quickly, needing to make it clear.
He holds my gaze for a second, then nods once, extending his hand out. “As friends.”
“Do we really need to do this?”
That shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “Fucking oath we do. Now, shake my hand, Freckles.”
I roll my eyes—because of course he’d ruin the moment with that—but somehow, I find my hand slipping into his anyway.
His palm is so large, it engulfs mine in an instant.
It’s rough. Warm . And for some reason I can’t explain, I feel lighter.
Just a little. Like letting even the tiniest part of my guard down was enough to ease the weight I’ve been dragging around, and the cherry on top?
Michael’s words linger in my head. They shouldn’t affect me the way they do. I shouldn’t feel something tighten in my throat.
I don’t know what terrifies me more. The fact that I’m changing, or that all of this doesn’t feel… entirely wrong. No. It’s neither of those. It’s the way this place is softening the edges I worked so hard to sharpen.
I told myself I hated Wattle Creek for everything it once brought and still brings.
But the truth is, I’m not so sure anymore.