11. Boone
Boone
S he’s been here a few days now. Long enough to learn where the dishes go, which light switches turn on certain lights, and how Mae likes her cereal.
You’d think that last one would be simple, right?
But, no. Mae is super particular about her cereal.
Milk must go first. Then only half her cereal may be poured, the other half waiting in a separate bowl to be added when she’s ready.
And heaven forbid you give that girl the wrong spoon.
Ani’s been here long enough for Jonah and Finn to settle down, too. But they haven’t yet.
Ani blends herself into the background. Says thank you too often and says sorry when she doesn’t need to. She moves through this house as though she’s waiting for someone to tell her to leave.
Finn’s the only one who can make her laugh out loud. Jonah doesn’t get the laughs, but she talks to him more now, lingers when he hands her a mug, sometimes even bumps her shoulder against his.
She doesn’t do any of that with me.
Not that I care. I don’t.
I see the way they are with her, too. It’s not hard to miss no matter how much I pretend not to notice.
Jonah checks in with those long, quiet looks that tell you more than a conversation would.
Finn buzzes around her with that easy charm of his.
She responds to both. Not always with words, but with her posture, her focus, her softness.
But I walk into a room and she goes still.
Right now, she’s at the stove, checking the burner. There’s a pan on low with oatmeal cooking. She straightens when she hears me behind her. Doesn’t turn around. Just stands a little taller.
“Morning, Annie,” I say.
She half turns. Offers a quiet “Good morning,” and nothing more.
I wait. She grabs a bowl from the cabinet. I clear my throat, louder than necessary.
“You’re not going to tell me that’s not your name?”
She glances over, quickly. Then back to the stove. “It’s not a big deal.”
“But it’s not your name.”
She shrugs. “People get it wrong all the time.”
“You wouldn’t allow Finn to get it wrong.”
She doesn’t answer that. Just spoons oatmeal into the bowl and reaches for the jar of honey.
I step to the side. She keeps her eyes down, focused on the counter. The muscles in her jaw twitch.
She drizzles the honey, sets the spoon down gently, and slides the bowl toward the center of the counter. Only then does she meet my eyes briefly. Her focus keeps drifting back to neutral ground, on anywhere but me.
“You don’t look me in the eyes,” I say.
“I’m looking at you now.”
“You’re looking at my chin.”
She lets out a small half-laugh, half-sigh.
“It’s not personal,” she says.
And what gets under my skin most is that it isn’t this way with Finn. Or Jonah. They get her attention, her eye contact, her soft laughs. I get the edge of her gaze and words she has to work to push out.
I haven’t done anything to earn that distance. But I feel it every time she glances right past me.
So I haven’t been soft or friendly with her. But I’m not soft or friendly with anyone. That’s not the way I’m built. I wasn’t raised that way and being in the Green Berets certainly didn’t make that any better.
But with her, it’s more than habit. It’s calculated.
Because I think she knows that I’m the one who sees through her performance. And I think she’s working hard to stay just out of reach.
That’s why I don’t trust her.
Not because she’s scared. But because she’s smart enough to know I’m the one asking the questions no one else wants to ask.
And maybe she’s worried I’m getting close to the answer.
There’s just something off, and the others are too caught up in her to see it. She tries to blend in like she belongs here, but I know better. I’ve seen her eyes when she thinks no one’s watching.
I don’t know what she’s running from, but I know she’s running.
She reaches for a napkin. Her fingers brush mine on the edge of the drawer, and she pulls back quickly.
I straighten, blocking the drawer as she tries again. “You always this skittish?”
“I’m not skittish. I’m cautious.”
“Same thing.”
“Not to me.”
There’s heat in her voice now, faint but rising. That’s the first real emotion I’ve heard from her that wasn’t gratitude or guilt. She steps around me and grabs the napkin from the table instead.
“You don’t have to trust me,” she says. “But if you’re going to assume the worst, maybe just say it out loud.”
I don’t move. “I never said I didn’t trust you.”
“You haven’t said much of anything.”
I nod once, slowly. “Now you’re comfortable correcting me.”
Her face flushes. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure it is.”
She picks up the bowl and turns away before I can push further. She’s hiding something. I’d bet my ass on it.
And if I’m right—and I usually am—she knows damn well I’m the one most likely to find it.
So she’s avoiding me. Staying close to the others who smile and tell her she’s doing great, while steering clear of the one who hasn’t been impressed by her polite quiet or her careful words.
But I didn’t spend the last year making sure this is a stable home for Mae just to let a pretty face and a made-up story slip through the cracks.
She can cook and clean and charm her way into Finn’s heart. She can linger too long in Jonah’s silences. But I’ll be the one to dig. To watch where she trips over herself.
Because whatever she’s running from, I’m going to find it.
And I’d like to get there before those two idiots get so lost in her pretty, young pussy they forget what it means to protect the life we’ve built here.
She doesn’t notice me from where I’m standing just outside the kitchen. She’s facing Finn, one hand curled around a coffee mug, the other pressed flat against the counter beside his. They’re not touching but they’re so close they might as well be.
He says something under his breath, and she tilts her head, smiling in that small, shy way. Her body shifts toward him.
Finn leans in as he says something quietly, just for her. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth as she tries not to laugh.
It clicks then—whatever’s happening between them has moved past stolen glances and quiet moments. It’s physical now. Maybe not all the way, but close enough that it’s only a matter of time. If it hasn’t already happened.
I’ve been patient with her. Too patient. But I’m done waiting.
She disappears down the hallway with a basket of towels. I give it a few seconds and then follow her.
When I enter the laundry room behind her, she’s standing at the small folding table with a towel laid flat.
I watch as she smooths the edges carefully.
She folds the towel too tight, corners creased like it might fall apart.
She hasn’t seen me yet, but I’ve watched her long enough to know this is a pattern.
When she wants space, she takes on a task and hides.
She doesn’t seem to notice me, so I make myself known. I step into the room and let the door click behind me.
She certainly notices that. Her spine straightens but she doesn’t turn.
“Boone.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Sensitive nose,” she says with a shrug like that’s a completely normal fucking answer.
“I’m done waiting,” I say. “You’ve been here for days. You know our schedules. You know our names. You know where the emergency key is.”
She nods but doesn’t speak.
“We still don’t know your full name.”
Her hands still. She doesn’t look at me.
“Not your real one. Just Ani. A nickname.”
I move in closer, closing the space.
“You haven’t told us where you’re from. Who you belong to. If you belong to anyone at all.”
That makes her flinch.
“You been hiding from a man?” I ask. “Or your family? Or something else?”
“I’m not a danger to anyone here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She lifts her head halfway, still not meeting my eyes.
“Do you need to know those things about me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you live here now. In our house. Near our girl. And I don’t know a damn thing about who you are or what you left behind.”
She swallows hard. Her fingers press into the edge of the counter until her knuckles pale.
“I told you my name.”
“You told us what you go by. That’s not the same.”
She finally looks at me. Not at my face, of course. Her gaze lands somewhere between my mouth and my collar.
Silence stretches between us. I let it.
She wets her lips. “Would it help if I said I don’t have a record?”
“You mean you don’t think we’d find one under the name you gave us?”
Her jaw tenses.
“You think this is a game?”
“No.”
“Because it feels like one. You flash your big eyes at Jonah. You laugh when Finn says something dumb. You help with breakfast and dinner, and watch Mae when we ask. But you haven’t told us anything important about yourself.”
I take a step forward. Close enough now that I could reach out and grab her. I don’t.
“You’re hiding in plain sight, and you’re doing it so well neither of those knuckleheads realizes it.”
Her voice, when it comes, is quieter. Less steady. “And you do?”
“I see it every time you flinch when a door closes too hard. When you press your hand over your stomach like you’re bracing for something. When your eyes flick around the room looking for danger.”
She closes them now. Just for a second.
“You’re not just nervous. You’re waiting.”
She opens them again. “For what?”
“To be found.”
“I’m not running from the law,” she says.
“Then what?”
Her lips press together. I see the moment she decides not to say it. But she doesn’t lie either.
“You want to stay here?” I ask. “Near our kid? You’re gonna have to tell us the truth.”
“I’ve spent my whole life learning how to stay quiet to survive.”
She’s not spinning a story, but she’s not willing to tell me what I need to know.
“I’m trying,” she says. “To be something else. To want something else.”
“And what is it you want?”
That’s when she meets my eyes fully. She locks in, and something tightens low in my stomach.
“You’re the one who wants something,” she says.
And then—barely a whisper, but every syllable cuts clean?—
“Isn’t that right?”
My gut pulls tight. Something hot coils in my chest. I don’t even realize I’ve taken another step toward her until she shifts back.
I exhale through my nose. Force my hands to stay at my sides.
“I don’t trust you,” I say.
“I know.”
“You haven’t earned my trust.”
“I know that, too.”
I turn and walk out of the room with a rock-hard cock.
And that’s a problem I’m not ready to tackle yet.
I do my best to avoid Ani for the rest of the day. I’m not sure I trust myself to be anywhere near her right now. Later that night, I step onto the porch to get away from all of them but I peer inside without them seeing me.
Ani’s inside, crouched near Mae with a book open across her lap. Her back is rounded, arms tucked in close to her sides.
Mae isn’t even looking at her. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest and her face turned away, hair spilling down over one side of her face so all you can see is part of her furrowed brow. She’s not looking at the book. But she’s not leaving either.
Ani keeps reading. I can’t make out the words from here, but the rhythm is soft and steady.
She turns the page, then holds the book out just a little, showing Mae the picture like she might look this time. But she doesn’t.
I see the exact second it hits her. The way her shoulders slump just a little. The way she blinks and swallows. She’s damn close to crying.
And something in me cracks.
She’s doing everything right with Mae, and it still isn’t enough. I see the ache written across her face. The shame in her eyes. The way she keeps her voice steady even though she’s barely holding it together.
She’s not faking it. I can tell this isn’t for show, and I don’t know what to do with that information.
I should go inside and pretend I didn’t see any of this, but I don’t. I stay and watch. Because I can’t seem to stop.
She flips another page, glancing up again at Mae, who continues to cross her arms and then shifts away another inch.
Ani sits back on her heels and closes the book slowly. She rests it in her lap and just stays there. She looks defeated, but she isn’t walking away.
She’s trouble. I know that in my gut.
But I’m already in deeper than I meant to be. And I’m not sure I even want to change that.