Chapter 9 Violet #2
The coffee table sits closer now, just the right distance for resting a mug without stretching.
On top, I've arranged a collection of items which have accumulated: a Colorado jacket bought by Meredith, a smooth stone from a mountain walk with Xaden, a paperback Liam recommended, a small plant Frank Stern gave me from his wife's garden.
None of these things were mine when I found them. But they belong to me now, like necessary components of a space which has become familiar.
The kitchen has seen changes too. Coffee maker moved to catch better morning light, fruit bowl positioned where I can see it from my workspace. Small adjustments making daily life flow more smoothly.
But it's the bedroom which has undergone the most dramatic transformation, and I'm trying not to think too hard about what it means.
The bed now sits in the corner where two walls meet. I'd moved it the second night, claiming I needed better window access. Really, I needed walls on two sides, protection from being approached from all directions.
I don't really cook much beyond coffee and toast. But having it here makes the space more like...
No. Not going down the road.
It dawns on me this isn't how someone organizes a temporary living situation.
This is how someone builds a nest.
The word appears in my mind and I immediately shove it away. I'm not nesting. I'm just making practical adjustments. Creating a functional workspace. Normal things any reasonable person would do.
But even as I tell myself this, I'm straightening the throw pillow on my reading chair, adjusting its position by inches to achieve some undefined sense of rightness. The movement is automatic, compulsive.
"Violet?" Garrick's voice drifts up from below, followed by footsteps on the stairs. "You up there?"
"Coming," I call back, stepping away from the pillow like I've been caught doing embarrassing acts.
I don’t want him seeing the changes I’ve made because then he will get the wrong idea. I find him in the kitchen, holding a plate covered with a dish towel. His hair has a streak of flour on his forearm I want to brush away with my fingers.
"Last night, I made too much dinner," he says, setting the plate down. "This was gonna go bad anyway."
Garrick doesn't make "too much" of anything, but the gesture makes warmth unfurl in my chest, along with the dangerous thought he's been thinking about me enough to cook extra food.
"Thank you.” I lift the towel to reveal shepherd's pie. "This smells incredible."
"It's nothing fancy. Just comfort food."
“I thought you might want my grandmother’s apron. In case you decide to cook upstairs.”
I glance at it, nodding. It’s pretty. Navy blue with small white flowers, like it’s handmade. I take it from him, running my fingers over the fabric. But I don’t know what to say.
One minute, he seems like he’s being thoughtful, the next, I’m not so sure what to make of it.
Is he making me feel insecure? Like cooking for me is too much?
This is how it started with Mark—small hints, until he started pushing everything on me.
I can feel that same tension creeping in, but with Garrick, it’s different.
He’s cooking, sure, but I need to stop reading too much into it.
Clearly, he wants me to start cooking, and I would if I had the money for it.
Well, I’ve got some now. Just yesterday, I got my first paycheck.
I celebrated by buying Meredith a muffin.
It felt good to be in control of my money again.
So, yeah, I need to buy my own food and stop living off the guys.
"Food's getting cold," Garrick says, already heading to the door. But he pauses at the threshold, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read. The moment stretches between us, charged with unspoken possibilities, before he disappears down the stairs.
After he leaves, I sit with the shepherd's pie and try to understand what's happening to me.
When did I become someone who cares about angles, and collecting soft things like some kind of nesting bird?
When did the sight of Garrick's flour-dusted forearms start making my pulse race?
When did the idea of leaving start to feel like losing the most important thing?
The shepherd's pie is delicious, which only makes everything worse.
Rich and warming, exactly the kind of food making you feel cared for.
As I eat, I look around the apartment with new eyes, seeing what Garrick might have seen.
The unmistakable signs I've been making myself at home in ways going beyond practical necessity.
My phone buzzes with a text from Emma: "How's the mountain adventure going? Still planning to head this way soon?"
I stare at the message, trying to imagine packing up and leaving Cedar Ridge forever. The thought makes my chest tight with panic.
"Going well," I text back. "Still figuring out when."
I'm just not sure the timing involves leaving anymore, which is exactly the kind of stupid thinking getting me trapped with Mark in the first place.
After I finish eating and tidy up, I curl up in my reading chair with Liam's book recommendation and the soft throw blanket when voices echo near the front door.
Usually, when Garrick finishes, Xaden tends to pick him up or Liam, so they can all ride home together.
The apartment door is slightly ajar, another new habit letting me hear the comforting sounds of life below.
"...definitely changed," Liam's voice drifts up. "Have you been up there lately?"
"Brought her..." Garrick cuts himself off. "Place doesn’t look the same."
“What do you mean?” Liam asks.
"Just different. Moved stuff around."
I hold my breath, straining to hear while pretending to focus on my book.
“Good you noticed it too. She’s nesting," Liam says quietly, and I nearly drop the book.
Well, fuck. Of course I am.
"What?"
"Classic nesting behavior. The furniture rearrangement, collecting soft items, creating barriers and comfort zones. She's been unconsciously preparing a space for long-term habitation."
"But she's planning to leave."
"Is she? Because everything about her behavior suggests the opposite," Liam says.
I set down the book with shaking hands. He's right, isn't he? Everything I've been doing, the careful arrangement of furniture, the accumulation of blankets and pillows, the way I've been optimizing every aspect of the space for comfort and security. It's all classic nesting behavior.
Like some kind of delusional bird building a nest on a construction site.
"She has got to,” Garrick says flatly, like he doesn't care about the answer. But there's an undercurrent of tension suggesting he cares more than he wants to admit.
"I don't think what she has done is temporary."
Their voices fade as they move away, then Garrick locks up the bakery, which is my cue to shut the door. Their conversation runs over in my mind. Nesting. The word I'd pushed away returns with uncomfortable clarity.
I look around seeing each change for what it really represents. Not practical improvements, but the deep, instinctive drive to create a safe space. The kind of space you share with people you trust.
The thought should terrify me. Six months ago, I was convinced I'd never escape Mark's house, never find anywhere I belonged. The idea of wanting to stay somewhere, of putting down roots, of trusting people enough to build permanent structures should feel impossible.
Instead, it feels like coming home. And that’s usually when the floor drops out from underneath me.
I pull the throw blanket higher, breathing in the faint scent of Garrick's grandmother's apron, and let myself imagine a future where this isn't temporary. I’m building my writing career from this corner booth.
Where Garrick's evening food deliveries become a tradition, along with the flutter in my stomach when he looks at me like he's seeing beneath my carefully constructed walls.
Where Liam's coffee breaks become the rhythm of my days.
A nest.
The thought doesn't terrify me anymore, which is probably the most terrifying thing of all. Because the last time I felt this safe, this settled, this stupidly optimistic about the future, I ended up trapped for seven years with a man who slowly convinced me I was worthless.
But as I sink deeper into my perfectly arranged reading chair, surrounded by all the soft things I've gathered, in the space I've shaped into home, I can't bring myself to worry about the risks.
I pull the throw blanket tighter around myself, breathing in the familiar scents of my nest. Vanilla and honey and traces of all three alphas from the times they've been here.
The apartment that's become mine, in the building one of them owns, eating food another provides, wearing the coat the third bought me because mine was too thin.
Taking care of me all along. I just didn't let myself see it because seeing it meant acknowledging how much I've come to depend on them. Tonight, I'm going to let myself experience the thing I haven't felt in years: the possibility I might actually be exactly where I need to be.
Even if admitting it out loud might destroy everything.