10. Zoey
Zoey
My new apartment had settled into its night shape, with the lights dimmed and sounds reduced to small clicks and the hum of the plumbing. Even Markie had gone quiet, which never meant asleep so much as saving his energy for later judgment.
Liam stood near the couch with his hands folded loosely in front of him, posture easy, attention sharp. He had that look again. The one that said he had already decided something and was now just waiting for the polite window to explain it.
“The doctor protocol says I need to wake you every few hours,” he said. “Just to check in.”
I blinked at him. “I’m fine.”
“I know.”
“You do not need to babysit me.”
“I’m not.”
I stared at him. He stared back. He did that thing he was always doing where he didn’t rush the silence, like it didn’t make him itchy or make his skin crawl.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he added. “I won’t be in the way.”
There it was. The offer that wasn’t an offer. The solution was too reasonable to argue with without sounding ungrateful or unhinged or both. I had secretly thought he was placating the doctor and would leave me to myself tonight.
The vulnerability I had allowed myself during the day was one thing. But nighttime brought on a different level of vulnerability that I was simply not ready for.
My chest tightened.
It wasn’t even Liam himself that was doing anything wrong. That was the worst part. It was just the shape of it. The way care slid so easily into occupation. The way help, once accepted, tended to grow roots and expectations and invisible ledgers I never agreed to keep.
If I let him stay tonight, what did that buy him tomorrow?
Nothing, the rational part of my brain said. Liam hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t hinted. He hadn’t even stepped closer.
But another part of me, older and sharper, kept track of patterns instead of promises, and it whispered incessantly to me.
People who took care of you always wanted something later. Time. Gratitude. Emotional access. Compliance. Even the good ones eventually reached for their return on investment.
I hated that part of my brain.
“You really don’t have to,” I said, my voice softer now.
Liam nodded. Not offended. Not wounded. “I want to,” he said. “But I can leave if you say so.”
That landed harder than it should have, because I could tell he meant it. And because he wasn’t already reaching for the door or the couch or me. Because he had put the choice down between us and stepped back from it.
I swallowed.
“Thank you,” I said. And this time I meant it. Thank you for caring. Thank you for not making it loud. Thank you for not making it transactional.
He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then inclined his head, like he’d accepted a responsibility and didn’t expect a reward.
Markie picked that moment to clear his throat. “GOODNIGHT ASSHOLES.”
“Sweet dreams, Markie,” I said.
“DIE SLOW,” the bird replied warmly.
I pushed myself up carefully and grabbed my crutches. Liam moved without thinking, then stopped himself and let me do it. He was ready to help me, but he wouldn’t intervene until I asked.
I hated that my chest did that thing again.
In my room, I slowly changed into my pajamas, then brushed my teeth. Every small routine felt louder than usual, like my body was checking to see if I was really safe enough to relax.
I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my waist. The mattress dipped in all the familiar ways. My new room already smelled like me, which helped me settle.
Down the hall, the couch creaked once, then everything fell silent again.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Gratitude pressed in on me, heavy and warm and terrifying. Was this what it felt like to be cared for without the expectation of reciprocity? And why was the thought of it disappearing even scarier? No, no, nope. I had to detach.
I didn’t know what Liam would expect of me when I was better.
I didn’t know what I would expect of myself.
All I knew was that, for tonight, someone was keeping watch without demanding proof that I deserved it. I would let him, for now. From a safe distance.
My eyes finally closed, and despite myself, I slept.
By noon the next day I had been relocated three times.
Not against my will, though. Every transfer had involved consent, negotiation, and me pretending I was above all of it.
The first time, I insisted I could make it from the couch to the kitchen on my own.
“I’ve had sprains before,” I told him, already bracing on the armrest.
“You also have a head injury now,” Liam said.
“I’m aware of my skull.”
He watched me stand. Watched me wobble. Watched me refuse to acknowledge either of those things.
I made it two steps before the room tilted, reminding me that gravity was not a suggestion. My concussion was apparently not playing.
Liam didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t even look smug. He just stepped forward and put one hand lightly at my waist.
“May I?” he asked.
I glared at him. “Yes.”
He picked me up like I weighed nothing. One arm under my knees, one behind my back. My body reacted before my pride did. I went soft and relaxed, and my hand fisted in the front of his shirt to steady myself.
His chest was solid under my palm. I could see the faint scar near his collarbone that I hadn’t noticed the night we met.
“This is unnecessary,” I informed him.
“You’re doing great,” he said.
That was not the reaction I had expected.
He carried me to the kitchen and set me down on a chair with the kind of care that suggested he was handling something fragile and valuable.
I hated that my throat tightened.
I also hated that I wanted to stay right there in his arms for one more second.
By early afternoon I was steadier on my crutches, and he had decided the bathroom needed to be cleaned “for infection control,” which felt suspiciously like an excuse to reorganize something.
“It’s fine,” I said from the hallway, leaning on my crutches. “It’s a bathroom. It’s seen worse.”
“It’s dusty,” he replied.
“It’s lived-in.”
“It’s dusty.”
He rolled up his sleeves and reached for the cleaning supplies, then he took off his shirt.
I gaped at him. “Is that medically required?”
He folded the shirt neatly and set it on the counter. “It seemed practical. Don’t want to get my shirt dirty.”
Practical.
“I—”
The man was built like a mythical force that had decided to settle down and pay taxes. Broad shoulders. Defined back.
I leaned harder on my crutches and told my face to behave.
“Try not to objectify me,” he said mildly, not turning around.
“I’m not?—”
“You just stopped talking mid-sentence.”
“I was considering your dusting technique.”
He glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Mm.”
Heat crept up my neck. “I thought you were a wolf,” I said. “Not a domestic cleaning service.”
He wiped down the sink with calm precision. “Wolves maintain their territory.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a justification.”
“It is.”
I watched the muscles in his back move as he reached higher along the mirror. It was deeply unfair that someone so competent could look so hot while holding a bottle of disinfectant.
“Are you done supervising?” he asked.
“I’m conducting quality control.”
He turned then, meeting my gaze fully. “Your quality control seems very attentive.”
I refused to look away first. I also refused to acknowledge the way my stomach flipped. “I appreciate thoroughness.”
I shifted my weight, trying to look casual and not like a woman actively watching a shirtless man clean her bathroom. One of my crutches caught the edge of the doorframe, and I swore under my breath.
“Careful,” he said, glancing over.
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.”
“It’s part of my brand.”
He moved toward the cabinet, and I realized too late that I was standing directly in front of it.
“I need something behind you,” he said.
“I can move.”
“You don’t have to.”
He stepped closer—not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel him there. The air between us shifted and narrowed. My grip tightened on the crutches before I could stop myself.
“You’re crowding me,” I said quietly.
“I’m reaching,” he said, just as quietly.
His arm rose beside my shoulder. His chest brushed the side of my crutch instead of me.
He knew exactly what he was doing, and knowing that, my pulse kicked hard.
He leaned in slightly, enough that his shoulder blocked the light for a second, and his scent hit me.
God, he smelled so good.
I stayed perfectly still.
“So,” I said, voice thinner than I wanted, “this is part of the dusting protocol?”
“Very advanced technique,” he murmured.
He’d found what he needed behind me, but he didn’t move away, and in that instant, I noticed everything about him.
The line of his throat. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way he waited instead of pressing forward.
He pulled back slowly and straightened. “There,” he said. “Got it.”
I exhaled, which felt like a mistake. “Did you just flirt with me while holding cleaning supplies?”
He gave me a sly smile. “I might have.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“You were staring.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I was observing.”
He nodded seriously.
I rolled my eyes, but the heat stayed put, low and persistent.
He stepped back toward the sink, giving me room again like nothing had happened, which somehow made it worse.
I watched him work for another second before realizing I was smiling. I stopped immediately, but not before he saw my reflection in the mirror. He returned my smile, then went back to work.
By mid-afternoon, boredom set in.
Being injured was deeply unglamorous. There was only so much staring you could do at your home before you began to resent the architecture.
I pushed myself up carefully and started toward the bookshelf.
“Zoey,” Liam said from across the room.
I kept going.
“Zoey.”
“I’m getting a book.”
“Don’t lie.”
I made it three steps before he was in front of me, one hand hovering near my elbow without touching.
“Sit,” he said.
“I’m not a labrador.”