I rest my cheek against him before I can think better of it.
Zain glances down. “You dizzy?”
“No.”
“Breathing okay?”
“Yes.”
His eyes stay on my face.
“I’m fine.”
His jaw tightens, and I almost smile. Apparently, those two words are the fastest way to make him look like he wants to start an argument.
A moment later, he climbs his porch steps with me still in his arms.
“Zain.”
“What?”
“You can put me down now.”
“No.”
“We are at your house.”
“I noticed.”
“You have a very argumentative personality.”
“So do you.”
I stare at him.
He opens the door and carries me inside with the calm certainty of a man who has decided my objections are background noise.
The first thing I notice is the order.
The cabin is modest, with one open main room, a dark couch facing a stone fireplace, and a compact kitchen running along one side. A small wooden table sits beneath the back window with two chairs. Beyond the kitchen, a short hallway disappears toward two closed doors.
Everything I can see has a place. Boots lined neatly beside the entrance. Keys in a shallow dish. Two mugs turned upside down beside the coffee maker. No mail scattered across the counter,no jacket abandoned over a chair, no forgotten cup slowly evolving into a science experiment.
The whole place looks like him.
Solid, quiet, with very little offered to anyone curious enough to look closer.
“You live like a man expecting an inspection.”
He shuts the door with his foot. “Maybe I am.”
“By whom?”
His gaze settles on me, expression unreadable.
I wait for an answer.
He gives me none.
