17. Liam #3
“I used to tell her the house was already busy enough without adding more people to it.” His mouth curved slightly. “She never listened. Strange thing about that now,” he added.
“What’s that?”
“You notice the empty spots more once somebody’s been sitting there a long time.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the single chair before returning to the bowl. The words settled into the room quietly.
I thought about what he had said while the wind moved through the trees outside the cabin. Because the truth was that I already had somewhere I returned to. Even if it was mostly in my mind.
Zoey.
Blue hair that caught attention even when she stood still in a room.
The sharp way she looked at the world often made people underestimate how carefully she observed everything around her.
She carried herself with a kind of stubborn independence that suggested she had spent a long time learning how to rely on herself alone.
I imagined her sitting at her desk surrounded by glowing screens and half-finished mugs of coffee.
Markie would be providing commentary that Zoey pretended not to appreciate.
I could picture the way she leaned back in her chair when she argued with him, her expression caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement.
The thought stayed with me longer than I expected.
Mr. Harlan wiped the last of the stew from his bowl with a piece of bread.
“You find someone good,” he said. “Hold onto them.”
He looked up at me, a man who had built that kind of life for more than four decades. A life shaped by shared direction. Shared belonging.
I already understood the instinct to protect the people around me. That responsibility had always come naturally. Making sure others were safe and supported was simply part of who I was.
But I had never had someone standing fully beside me.
Someone who shared the center of things.
Mr. Harlan stood slowly and carried his bowl to the sink. “Good meal,” he said. “Thank you.” He moved toward the door and paused, resting his hand on the frame. “Really…thank you,” he added.
The door closed behind him a moment later. The cabin returned to its usual quiet.
I remained where I was, considering the conversation we had just shared. For most of my life, I had convinced myself that independence was enough, that movement and flexibility were preferable to the risk that came with building something permanent.
Tonight had shifted that perspective. I wanted more than that—a partner, someone who stood beside me instead of passing briefly through my life.
And when I let myself think about that kind of future, my mind returned to Zoey without hesitation. Her stubborn independence. Her intelligence. The kindness she kept trying to hide behind irritation and sarcasm.
What existed between us felt real, and if there was even a chance she felt it too, then ignoring it would be its own kind of mistake.
I wanted to show her I was someone she could trust, someone worth building something with, and as that certainty settled into place, slow but firm, I realized I would protect whatever this connection between us became.
By then the cabin had gone completely quiet. I cleared the table automatically, rinsing the bowls and stacking them beside the sink, giving my hands something to do while my mind kept circling back to the same place.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached for my phone. Her name appeared immediately when I opened my contacts, and I hesitated only a moment before pressing call. The line rang once. Then twice. Then a third time, and with each one, my stomach tightened in a way I didn’t particularly enjoy.
By the fourth ring, I told myself she was probably still working. Her job involved strange hours and constant interruptions. It was entirely possible she had simply stepped away from the phone.
The call rolled to voicemail.
I lowered the phone slowly and considered sending a text message. Just checking in. My thumb hovered over the screen.
Then I stopped.
Zoey valued her independence more than most people I knew. Calling once to check on her was reasonable. Filling her phone with messages because she hadn’t answered immediately would cross a line she had made very clear.
I put my phone down on the counter.
Still, the uneasiness remained.
A small, persistent knot of concern settled low in my stomach, the same instinct that usually appeared when something in the environment felt slightly off.
I told myself she was fine.
She was capable. Intelligent. More than capable of handling her own evening without supervision.
None of that stopped the quiet tension from lingering.
After a moment, I picked up the phone again and checked the screen, just to confirm there hadn’t been a missed call in the last thirty seconds.
Nothing.
I set it back down and forced myself to step away from the counter.
She would call if she needed something.
Until then, the most respectful thing I could do was give her the space she had asked for.
Even if part of me still felt uneasy walking away from the phone.