Kaia
By late afternoon, I have filled three pages of my sketchbook and accidentally turned two pine trees into Zain’s shoulders.
This is becoming a problem.
I sit curled into one of the porch chairs with a leg tucked beneath me, humming while I shade the edge of another suspiciously muscular tree.
Zain left for his shift hours ago after making me promise to call if my breathing changed, my shoulder hurt, or I developed any other symptom he could classify as medically suspicious.
My phone is inside on the kitchen counter, and for once, the cabin is completely quiet.
Then movement near the trees catches my attention.
I lower my pencil.
A woman steps from behind a pine at the edge of the property, and it takes me only a second to recognize her.
Mrs. Harlan.
My landlord’s wife.
She is in her fifties, with neat blond hair and the same careful expression she wore the two times we met. Except there is nothing polite about the way she is looking toward Zain’s cabin now.
Her gaze shifts to the road. Then back to the house.
A red plastic gasoline can hangs from one hand.
My stomach drops.
She starts along the side of the cabin, keeping close to the trees as she moves toward the back.
I stand.
“Mrs. Harlan?”
She spins so fast the can swings into her leg.
For one long second, we stare at each other.
Then her face changes.
“Kaia.”
I set my sketchbook on the chair.
“What are you doing here?”
Her fingers tighten around the handle of the can.
“Why are you outside?”
The question makes no sense.
“I’m staying with Zain.”
“I know.”
Something cold slips down my spine.
Her gaze moves over the porch, the open front door behind me, then back to my face.
“You just keep finding another house in the neighborhood.”
I take a slow step toward the center of the porch, putting more space between us.
“What does that mean?”
Her mouth twists.
“You were supposed to die in the first one.”
Everything inside me stops.
“What?”
“In the fire.”
My pulse begins to hammer.
She lifts the gasoline can slightly.
“I thought it was finished.”
Understanding hits so hard I feel sick.
“You burned my house.”
“You ruined mine first.”
“I do not even know what you are talking about.”
“My husband.”
The words come out sharp and bitter.
“He always does this. Every time some young woman rents that house, suddenly there are repairs, phone calls, excuses to stop by.”
I stare at her.
“I called him because things were broken.”
“You called him constantly.”
“The lights were flickering. A drawer jammed. The house needed work.”
“Liar.”
“I am not lying.”
Her face tightens with fury.
“I saw your number on his phone.”
“Because he was my landlord.”
“He said that about the others too.”
The others.
My stomach turns.
Whatever her husband has done, she has taken every betrayal and built me into the newest version of it.
“That house has brought me nothing but trouble,” she says. “At least this way, I could get rid of both problems and collect the insurance.”
My attention drops to the gasoline can.
Then to the side of Zain’s cabin.
The truth becomes horribly clear.
“You came here to burn this place too.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“This is Zain’s home. He is the fire chief. Did you really think you could burn another house and no one would connect it?”
“You should not be outside.”
The quietness of her answer frightens me more than shouting would have.
I stare at her.
She takes a step closer.
“You were supposed to be inside.”
My breath catches.
“What?”
“Asleep. Unaware. You were not supposed to see me.”
She knew exactly where I was staying.
Exactly when Zain left.
My skin goes cold.
“You followed me.”
“It was necessary.”
Her fingers tighten around the gasoline can.
“I should have finished it the first time.”
I edge sideways toward the open stretch of porch instead of letting her corner me near the door.
“Stay away from me.”
Her free hand slides behind her hip.
For one second, I think she is reaching for a phone.
Then she pulls a long garden knife from a sheath clipped at the back of her waistband.
Fear hits hard and immediate.
“Mrs. Harlan.”
“You should have died.”
She comes at me with the knife.
I throw myself aside.
The blade strikes the porch rail where my arm had been a second earlier. I stumble into the chair, recover, and barely get out of the way when she yanks the knife free.
“Stop!”
She swings again.
I jerk back, and my shoulder slams into the porch post hard enough to send pain down my arm.
Then a voice cuts across the yard.
“Drop it.”
Zain.
Mrs. Harlan freezes.
So do I.
He comes around the side of the cabin fast, in dark department pants and a black shirt, his expression colder than I have ever seen it.
“Drop the weapon.”
She turns toward him.
That is all he needs.
Zain closes the distance, catches her wrist, and forces the knife from her hand before she can swing again. It clatters across the porch boards. She screams and twists, but he turns her away from me and locks her arms behind her back with brutal efficiency.
The gasoline can hits the ground.
“Kaia.”
His eyes find mine.
“Are you hurt?”
“My shoulder.”
His jaw locks.
Sirens rise somewhere beyond the trees.
Mrs. Harlan starts fighting harder, but Zain barely moves.
“The cause team found signs of an intentionally set fire this afternoon. Once we had that, we started checking cameras from nearby properties.”
Her face drains of color.
“One caught you going into Kaia’s house before the fire.”
“No.”
“With the spare key.”
“No.”
“You left fourteen minutes later.”
She starts shaking her head.
Zain looks at the gasoline can lying beside his porch.
“And now you came here to do it again.”
A patrol car tears into the drive.
After that, everything happens quickly.
The deputies take her. Someone photographs the gasoline can, the knife, and the path behind the cabin. A paramedic checks my shoulder while I answer questions that seem to come from very far away.
Through all of it, Zain stays close enough to touch me.
When the last vehicle finally leaves, the yard falls quiet again.
I stand on the porch with my arms wrapped around myself.
Zain turns to me.
The second our eyes meet, whatever control he has been holding together disappears.
“Come here.”
I go.
His arms close around me, pulling me hard against his chest.
I bury my face against his neck.
“You saved me again.”
His hold tightens.
“Once we knew it was arson, we started looking for footage.” His hand moves over the back of my head. “I called you.”
My phone.
Inside.
“I didn’t hear it.”
“I know. I knew you were alone, and when you didn’t answer…”
He stops.
I pull back enough to see his face.
“Zain.”
“I thought I was too late.”
The fear in his eyes breaks something open inside me.
“You weren’t.”
His jaw tightens.
“I cannot keep almost losing you.”
My throat closes.
For once, I do not joke or hide behind something clever.
“I love you.”
He goes completely still.
I swallow.
“I love you, and before you decide I am confused, traumatized, or suffering from delayed smoke inhalation, I am not.”
Something breaks across his face.
His hands close around mine.
“I love you too.”
My breath catches.
He says it again, rougher this time.
“I love you, Kaia.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he says, “Marry me.”
I blink.
“What?”
“I know the timing is terrible.”
A laugh catches somewhere between my chest and my throat.
“You think?”
“I almost lost you twice in less than a week. I am done waiting for a better time to say what I want.”
My heart starts pounding for an entirely different reason.
Zain takes both my hands in his.
“I grew up in foster homes. I spent years learning not to expect anyone to stay, and I told myself I did not need a family because it was easier than admitting how badly I wanted one.”
His voice roughens.
“I want one with you.”
I cannot breathe.
“A loud one. Kids. As many as we can handle. A house that is never too quiet. Children who know every day that they are wanted and loved, and never have to wonder if someone is going to send them away.”
Tears spill over before I can stop them.
Zain’s expression shifts.
“Kaia.”
I laugh through the tears.
“No, keep going. You are doing very well.”
His mouth almost curves.
“I want all of it. With you.”
Something inside me settles.
All my life, family meant criticism wrapped in concern. Love with conditions. A constant awareness that I could be better if I were quieter, thinner, easier, different.
I wanted a loving family so badly that eventually I stopped admitting it, even to myself.
Now Zain stands in front of me offering exactly that.
Not perfection.
A choice.
A home.
Him.
“Yes.”
He freezes.
I squeeze his hands.
“Yes, Zain. I will marry you.”
For one second, he only stares at me.
Then he pulls me against him and kisses me.
I wrap my arms around his neck, laughing into his mouth while tears still wet my cheeks.
I know exactly where I belong.