Chapter 11 The Spaces Where Loneliness Lives #2
“I'm asking you to come over and be your usual charming self. Rafe could use a reminder that the world contains things other than monsters and trauma.”
“Charming, huh?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Give me twenty minutes. And tell your guest I'm bringing the good cards, not the ones with the weird Renaissance art.”
“Noted.”
I hung up and found Rafe watching me with an expression somewhere between confused and hopeful.
“What just happened?”
“Reinforcements.” I stood, moved toward the door. “Get changed into something comfortable. Michael's coming over, and if I know him, he's going to make you play poker until you forget you were ever scared.”
Michael arrived and he came through the back door like he belonged here, which he increasingly did, carrying a pie tin in one hand and a battered deck of cards in the other.
His hair was windblown, his jacket smelled like the cold outside, and when he saw me standing in the kitchen, his whole face softened into something that made my chest ache.
“You know,” he said, setting the pie on the counter, “when I imagined you calling me at nine PM, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Something involving fewer houseguests and more...” He gestured vaguely. “I don't know. Normal conversation that doesn't revolve around traumatized werewolves.”
“Rafe's not a werewolf. He's a wolf shifter. There's a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Werewolves are cursed humans who can't control their shifts. Wolf shifters are born this way and have complete control.” I paused. “Mostly complete control.”
“Fascinating.” Michael's voice was dry. “I'll add that to my growing list of supernatural distinctions I never needed to know.”
“You're welcome.”
He laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen in ways I hadn't realized it was empty. “Where's our guest?”
“Getting changed. He had a rough night. Something in the forest spooked him on patrol.”
“Something supernatural?”
“Probably. We didn't find anything, but the wards were holding, so whatever it was didn't get through.” I moved to the coffee maker, started prepping a fresh pot. “He's been shaky ever since. I thought some human company might help ground him.”
Michael was quiet for a moment, watching me work. “You called me to help calm down a scared wolf.”
“I called you because you're good with people. And because Rafe needs to see that not everyone in this town is a potential threat.”
“And because you wanted an excuse to see me?”
I glanced at him over my shoulder. He was smiling, teasing, but there was something underneath it. Something hopeful.
“Maybe that too.”
His smile widened. “Good answer.”
Footsteps on the stairs announced Rafe’s arrival.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway a moment later, dressed in borrowed sweatpants and a pack hoodie that hung a little too loose on his frame. He looked younger like this. Softer. More like whoever he’d been before everything went wrong.
Michael glanced up from the counter and lifted his chin in greeting, like they’d done this a dozen times already. “Hey.”
Rafe hesitated—just a beat—then stepped in fully. “Hey.”
I pointed at the chair across from me even though it was obvious where he was meant to sit. Routine mattered. It made the room feel less like a hospital and more like a home.
“Cards,” I said. “Michael brought cards. And pie.”
“Martha’s apple crumble,” Michael confirmed, already pulling plates from the cabinet like he owned the place. Which he basically did, at this point. “Fair warning, I’m terrible at poker but I refuse to acknowledge it. Daniel thinks I cheat.”
“I know you cheat,” I said. “I just can’t prove it.”
Michael shot me an offended look over his shoulder. “Innocent until proven guilty. That’s the American way.”
Rafe’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
That little twitch mattered more than it should’ve.
We settled at the kitchen table—pie distributed, coffee poured, cards shuffled and dealt with the easy efficiency of people who’d done this before.
Rafe stayed quiet at first, watching more than playing, eyes tracking hands and expressions like he was cataloging the room for threats even though there weren’t any.
Michael didn’t push. He was good at that. At treating silence like something normal instead of something to fix.
He just slid Rafe his portion of pie without comment and asked, casual, “You right-handed or left-handed when you deal?”
Rafe blinked like the question caught him off guard. “Right.”
“Okay. Good. That means when you crush Daniel, it’ll be with your dominant hand.”
“I’m not going to crush him,” Rafe muttered, staring down at his cards.
“You are,” Michael said with absolute confidence. “Daniel’s got a terrible poker face.”
“I do not,” I said.
Michael snorted and tossed in a chip. “You absolutely do.”
Rafe glanced up, cautious. “He’s messing with you.”
“I’m not,” Michael said, delighted. “I’m informing you.”
I leaned back in my chair. “He’s trying to recruit you.”
“Recruit me for what?” Rafe asked.
“For mutiny,” I said.
Michael put a hand to his chest. “For honesty. For truth. For justice.”
Rafe stared at him for a second longer, then—finally—let out a small huff of laughter like he hadn’t meant to.
Michael’s eyes brightened, subtle but immediate, like he’d just won something.
“See?” he said, pointing at me. “Even Rafe agrees you’re dramatic.”
“I didn’t say that,” Rafe protested, but his mouth was betraying him now.
“You didn’t have to,” Michael said. “Your face did.”
I frowned. “My face does nothing.”
Michael slapped down three cards, drew three more, and then looked straight at Rafe like he was passing him a secret. “Okay, but for real—tell me I’m not imagining this. Daniel’s left eyebrow twitches when he’s bluffing.”
“That is not true,” I said immediately.
Rafe paused, eyes flicking to my face—studying, measuring—and then something mischievous flickered in his amber gaze.
“It does,” he said.
I stared at him.
Michael made a sound of pure victory. “Thank you.”
“Traitor,” I said, because that was the only word that fit.
Rafe lifted one shoulder, unapologetic. “You invited me to play. I’m just being honest.”
Michael laughed, delighted, and it warmed the whole kitchen for a second. “I like him,” he announced. “Can we keep him?”
“He’s not a pet,” I said automatically.
“I meant as a permanent houseguest who backs me up during arguments.” Michael’s grin softened as he looked at Rafe. “You’re officially my favorite wolf. Don’t tell Evan.”
Rafe dropped his gaze to his cards, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. Not gone. Just… loosened, like someone had quietly untied a knot.
When he looked up again, some of the haunted quality in his eyes had dimmed.
“Thanks,” he said, voice low. “For coming over. For this. I know you didn’t have to.”
“No, I didn't.” Michael shrugged. “But Daniel asked, and he doesn't ask for much. So here I am, losing badly at poker and pretending I don't notice that he keeps stealing glances at me when he thinks I'm not looking.”
“I'm not—”
“You are. It's cute. Also distracting.” Michael laid down his hand. “Full house. Pay up, gentlemen.”
I stared at his cards. “That's the third full house in a row.”
“I'm very lucky.”
“You're cheating.”
“Prove it.”
I couldn't. But I also couldn't bring myself to care, because Rafe was laughing now, actually laughing, and Michael was grinning like he'd won something far more valuable than a poker hand, and for a moment, just a moment, everything felt simple.
Michael left around midnight, full of pie and triumphant about his poker victories. I walked him to his truck, told myself it was just politeness and not an excuse to have him alone for another minute.
“He's going to be okay,” Michael said, leaning against the driver's side door. “Rafe. He's scared and traumatized, but there's something solid underneath. He just needs time to remember that not everything is a threat.”
“You got all that from three hours of poker?”
“I got all that from watching him relax. From seeing him actually smile when you made that terrible joke about wolves and betting.” Michael's expression went soft. “You're good with him, Daniel. Patient. Kind. It's nice to see.”
“Thank you,” I said instead. “For coming. For helping.”
“Anytime.” He pushed off from the truck, hesitated. “Daniel?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you want to see me, you don't need to invent a crisis. You can just... ask.”
He was smiling, but there was something serious underneath. An offer. An opening.
“I'll remember that,” I said.
“See that you do.” He climbed into the truck, started the engine. “Goodnight, Daniel. Try to get some sleep.”
“Goodnight, Michael.”
I watched him drive away, taillights disappearing into the dark. Then I went back inside, checked on Rafe one more time—sleeping now, peacefully, no nightmares yet—and headed to my own room.
Sleep was a long time coming.
But when it finally arrived, I dreamed of laughter around a kitchen table, of cards and coffee and Michael's smile, and for the first time in months, the dreams weren't heavy.
They were warm.
And that was enough.