The room is simple and beautiful in equal measure. There’s soft, warm bedding in neutral tones, a dresser in dark wood, along with a comfortable chair angled toward two sliding glass doors that open directly onto the pool deck, the water shimmering beyond in the night. A warm lamp on the nightstand casts everything in soft, easy light.
And on the nightstand sits a small, neat stack of books.
I cross to the nightstand and pick up the first one.
It Ends With Us.
A small laugh escapes me before I pick up the next,Beautiful Disaster,and then the third,The Notebook.
I look up at Tate.
He’s standing near the door with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets, my bag set down at the foot of the bed, looking slightly uncomfortable in the way men do when they’ve done something thoughtful and aren’t entirely sure how it’s going to be received.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” he says, clearing his throat. “The woman at the bookstore said these were popular.”
Setting the books back down gently, I turn to face him.
Before Ryan died, I used to read a book a week, always romance, always the kind with love that survived everything and endings that felt earned and true. Now the thought of those endings makes something ache in a way that’s hard to sit with. I know the truth of happily ever after now. I know they aren’t guaranteed. I know that sometimes the story just stops.
Then I notice it.
A framed photograph on the nightstand. Ryan. Tate. Me.
Standing there looking at it, something catches in my throat that I hadn’t expected. He’d thought of that. In the middle of preparing this room with the books, the lamp, the bedding, he’d thought to find this photograph and put it here so that when I walked through that door, I wouldn’t feel like a stranger.
He’d put Ryan in the room.
For me.
Turning back to Tate in the doorway. “You got this printed?”
“Quill had it,” he says, shrugging slightly.
That undoes me a little.
Walking toward him, I place my hand on his arm. “Tate.” I wait until he looks at me. “Thank you for all of this. For letting me come, for this room, for…” I look around, searching for the right words and not quite finding them. “You really didn’t have to do any of this.”
He looks faintly uncomfortable with the gratitude, the way he always seems to be. “Don’t mention it.”
“I mean it.” I hold his gaze. “You really mean it, don’t you? That I have a place here?”
“A promise is a promise.”
We stand there for a moment in the quiet room, the weight of Tracker’s absence settling between us like something neither of us needs to name out loud. It’s just there, familiar, heavy, and strangely comforting because it’s the one thing we both carry in exactly the same way.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I look up at him. “Thank you.”
He nods once. “Bathroom’s through that door. Kitchen’s open whenever you want it.” A pause. “Actually, I’ll get the steaks going. You must be starving.”
I stand quickly. “I’ll help.”
“No. Rest. It’s been a long day.” Already moving toward the door. “I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”
A yawn catches me completely off guard, and I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, which rather proves his point.
“Maybe you’re right,” I admit with a small smile.
He pauses in the doorway and turns back once more, like he wants to check one more time that I’m all right before he leaves me to it.
