10. Zoey #2
“You’re concussed.”
I sighed dramatically and let him guide me back to the couch.
“Which book?” he asked.
“I thought you were a wolf,” I said. “Not a dog.”
He considered that. “I’m very good at fetch.”
That caught me off guard.
“Oh,” I said. “So, you’re leaning into it.”
“I’m the best at fetch.” He radiated confidence.
“Prove it.”
He folded his arms. “Name it.”
I scanned the room. “Third shelf. Blue spine. Slightly pretentious title.”
He turned and pulled it down after barely glancing at the shelf.
I narrowed my eyes. “Okay. That was lucky. Now get me the thin one with the torn dust jacket from the box labeled ‘office but make it sad.’”
He found that, too. Even I hadn’t known where that box was.
“Impressive,” I admitted.
He handed it to me, then waited.
I squinted at a stack of unopened boxes. “There’s a mug in there with a chipped handle and a swear word on it. I want that, please.”
He crouched, opened the correct box, and held it up without comment.
I leaned back against the cushions. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
I laughed despite myself.
Later, when I insisted on helping, he compromised by lifting each item out of a box and holding it up for my approval.
“Desk lamp,” he said.
“Office.”
“Framed photo.”
“Office.”
“Stack of unopened mail.”
“Burn it.”
He gave me a look.
“Kidding,” I said. “Office.”
He moved through the room steadily, rearranging furniture to clear a path wide enough for my crutches, plugging in my monitor, setting my keyboard exactly where my hands would land naturally.
“You don’t have to do all of this,” I said quietly as he adjusted my chair height.
“I know.” He stepped back and surveyed the space.
My office. Functional, ready. Mine.
He had done it without asking for credit. Without turning it into proof of anything.
Gratitude rose inside me again. Heavy. Complicated.
“What are you going to expect from me when I’m better?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked at me in surprise. “Nothing.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is for me.”
The steadiness in his tone made my chest ache. He crossed the room and crouched in front of me so he could look into my eyes.
“I’m not keeping score,” he said. “I’m here because I want to be.”
The urge to believe him was almost painful. I swallowed and nodded once.
“Okay,” I said.
He stood and offered his hands. “Bathroom?”
I hesitated before putting my hands in his and letting him pick me up again.
I fit there, in his arms, too easily.
And for the rest of the day, I let him fetch and carry, hover and adjust.
I told myself it was temporary, that I didn’t owe him anything, that we were just two people who’d connected, and it didn’t have to be anything more than that right now.
And somewhere between the dusting and the desk lamp and the chipped mug, my heart stopped bracing so hard.
The light began to change, telling me night was approaching. It was a subtle shift, where the gold of the sun thinned and the shadows in the room softened. Evening was slipping in whether I liked it or not.
I noticed it because I was watching the way it caught in Liam’s hair as he stood by the bookshelf, and I immediately resented that fact.
The doctor’s protocol technically ended tonight.
Last night, Liam had woken me every two hours. Asked me orientation questions with a straight face. Watched for symptoms. Hovered without smothering. Carried me when I let him. Backed off when I didn’t. And he’d basically cleaned and organized my whole apartment.
At some point, distantly, it occurred to me that I had not actually asked how he was able to do any of that.
He had a job. Responsibilities. A place he was supposed to be that was not here. And yet he had been here, and he hadn’t made it feel like a sacrifice I needed to account for.
My stomach tightened slightly. I knew what it looked like when someone kept showing up like that and no one stopped them. I knew how easy it was to let it happen. To accept the help. To focus on what you needed in the moment and not what it cost the other person to give it.
I had spent most of my life on the other side of that equation. Was I acting like my mom?
The idea that I might be stepping into that now, even a little, made my chest pull tight.
Never.
I repositioned myself on the couch, pressing my fingernails into my hand to ground the thought before it could spiral any further.
That wasn’t what this was.
He had chosen to be here. He had made that clear in every possible way.
I hadn’t asked for any of it. Much less expected it.
Still, the awareness lingered.
But he would be leaving this evening. That thought didn’t bring full relief like it should have. There was some relief, but it was mixed in with a host of other emotions, like some sort of fucked-up emotion soup. Emotions like sadness and grief.
I shut it down immediately.
He should leave. He had a life. A job. A whole supernatural ecosystem I barely understood. This was temporary.
Life had to go on.
We still had a few hours.
I glared at the situation unfolding at the bookshelf. This I could handle. Fuck all that emotional nonsense.
“You’re doing that wrong,” I told him.
“I am not,” Liam replied calmly.
He was on his knees beside the lowest shelf, stacking my books into tidy piles. He had removed everything and was now reorganizing it with the seriousness of someone handling classified material.
“You’re ignoring the obvious system,” I said.
“Color is not a system.”
“It’s a perfectly valid system.”
“It is aesthetic chaos.”
“It is curated.”
Bobbi sat cross-legged beside him, chin in her hands, pure delight on her face as she observed us.
“He’s using the Dewey Decimal System,” she informed me. “That’s what libraries use.”
“This is not a library,” I said. “This is my house.”
“It’s a very efficient system,” Liam said, sliding a book into place with precision.
“It looks like a spreadsheet.”
“That’s the point.”
Markie shifted on his perch and watched the proceedings with narrow-eyed suspicion.
Bobbi leaned closer to Liam. “How do you know the numbers without looking them up?”
“I remember them,” he said.
She gasped. “Why?”
He paused. “It’s useful.”
“That is fascinating,” she said with complete sincerity.
I watched the two of them, the massive shifter and the eleven-year-old interrogator, bent over my bookshelf with identical intensity, and my heart made a slow, complicated turn.
The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched longer.
I told myself again that this was ending tonight. That I was okay with that; that it was good, even.
Bobbi broke the silence. “Zoey says you’re a shifter.”
Liam went still for half a second before he answered. “Yes.”
She scooted closer. “What kind?”
“Wolf.”
Her eyes widened in open awe. “That is significantly cooler than being human.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Humans have advantages.”
“Such as?”
“You have opposable thumbs all the time.”
She considered that seriously. “That’s true.”
I tried very hard to look bored.
“My brothers and I play shifters sometimes,” Bobbi added. “My older brother and my younger brother are always bears because they think that means they get to tackle people. I’m a cat.”
Liam’s mouth twitched. “Why a cat?”
Bobbi looked faintly offended by the question. “Because cats are elegant. And they don’t have to listen.”
She had a point there.
“Can you shift right now?” Bobbi asked.
“Bobbi,” I said.
“What?” she said. “I’m curious.”
Liam looked at me, the question hanging in the air between us. I should have said no. My nervous system was already walking a tightrope.
But I wanted to see.
God, I really wanted to see.
“It’s your house,” he said softly.
Bobbi clasped her hands together. “Please.”
I exhaled slowly. “If you break anything, I’m billing you.”
Liam stood.
There was no drama to it. No glow. No cinematic swirl.
Just a change in posture, in focus. His body moved with controlled precision.
Bones adjusted beneath skin. It should have looked wrong, but it was beautiful.
His height folded into a new form. Broad shoulders restructured into something equally powerful but lower to the ground.
And then he was a wolf.
A massive, sleek wolf with thick fur that caught the last light and held it. The eyes were sharp, intelligent, and unmistakably Liam.
To say he was beautiful was inadequate and deeply unfair. He was magnificent.
Bobbi didn’t scream. She leaned forward and whispered, “Oh.”
Markie fluffed his feathers.
Liam lowered his head slightly, watching us both.
I forgot to breathe for a second—not from fear, but from the sheer physical reality of him. I could see the strength in the line of his back, the quiet alertness in the way he held himself. This creature, this ancient mass of instinct wrapped in muscle and fur, had been making me tea this morning.
Bobbi crawled a little closer. “Can I touch you?”
Liam looked at me again.
“Gentle,” I said.
Bobbi extended her hand and carefully ran it along his side. “Oh, you’re very soft.”
His tail wagged, and I couldn’t help but grin.
Then, before I could prepare for it, he crossed the small bit of space between us and pressed against my leg, his fur warm along my shin and thing.
I stilled.
He rubbed against me, his shoulder bumping my hip slightly, then he turned his head and pressed his face into my hand.
“Oh my god,” Bobbi whispered.
I looked down at Liam. This should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. A giant wolf shifter was rubbing against me like an affectionate, overgrown pet.
He nudged my palm again, and I let my hand slide over the side of his neck. He shamelessly leaned into my touch. When I scratched lightly behind one ear, his whole body loosened, like I had found the right button, and he was not remotely embarrassed about it.
I should have hated how much I liked that.
Something in me melted with horrifying speed.
“There it is,” Bobbi said softly. “He wants pets.”
“I can see that,” I muttered.
Liam answered by pressing his nose briefly against my stomach, then angling his head back into my hand with deliberate insistence. Apparently, the wolf version of him had given up on restraint entirely and decided this was happening.
A soft sigh, which I was completely embarrassed by, fell from my lips.
His tail wagged again.
Ugh.
Still, I kept stroking him, moving my hand down the strong line of his back and up to his neck again, to the spot he seemed to like best. He stayed pressed to my side, huge and solid and weirdly pleased with himself.
Markie leaned forward on his perch. “DOG!”
Liam’s head snapped toward the cage.
Bobbi’s eyes widened. I stared at my bird.
In an instant, Liam shifted back, his bones reassembling into the tall, solid man I had been trying not to fall for all day.
“I’m not a dog,” he said evenly.
Bobbi blinked. “You’re a wolf.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a kind of dog.”
“It is not.”
Markie tilted his head, unbothered. “DOG.”
Huffing, Liam crossed his arms over his chest, which didn’t help me to take him seriously. “I outrank dogs.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
Markie clicked. “STAY.”
Liam clenched his jaw. The silence that followed stretched thin and ceremonial, as though some ancient ruling had just been handed down by a very small, feathered monarch.
Bobbi leaned forward, eyes bright. “You have to. He said it.”
“I absolutely do not,” Liam said.
Markie didn’t blink, but he did lean forward slightly and said, very clearly, “STAY BITCH.”
Bobbi gasped in utter delight.
My brain short-circuited, and I struggled really hard not to giggle.
Liam’s nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”
“STAY,” Markie repeated, louder. “DOG.”
Liam lasted three seconds.
I counted.
One. Two. Three.
Then he went completely still, obeying the bird’s command.
Bobbi clapped her hands. “That’s good.”
I pressed my lips together so hard they hurt. “You just obeyed my parrot.”
“I’m in his territory,” Liam muttered without moving a single muscle. “There are politics.”
“Politics,” I echoed, stifling a grin.
Markie puffed up, feathers slightly flared. “GOOD DOG,” he announced. “SYSTEM STABLE.”
Bobbi covered her mouth, vibrating with joy. “He promoted you again.”
Liam closed his eyes briefly, as though reconsidering every decision that had led him to this living room.
“I am deeply offended,” he said.
“Are you though?” I asked.
His gaze slid to mine, but he failed to keep up the pretense of having any dignity left. “Yes.”
“You did what he said.”
“That was strategic. I’m playing the long game with Markie.”
Markie leaned forward again. “HEEL.”
Liam froze.
Bobbi whispered, “Oh my god.”
Markie cocked his head. “RESTART YOUR SHIT.”
I lost it. A laugh burst out of me, loud and uncontrolled.
Bobbi nodded solemnly at Liam. “You have been categorized.”
Liam exhaled through his nose. “I dislike this hierarchy.”
Markie settled back on his perch, entirely pleased with himself. “DOG.”
Liam crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.
I laughed again, feeling weirdly content. The sun was setting, and my shifter caretaker had just been categorized as a dog by my foul-mouthed bird. Liam was still here, and he would be for a few more hours.
Some of that contentment faded, because deep down, if I was brave enough to admit it to myself, I wasn’t ready for him to leave.