Page 26 of The Wild Card

“Alaska?”

“Anchorage. It’s, uh, technically a promotion—heading up a task force—but I can’t…” He stops, then starts again. “I’ve spent two years building a life here. Finding doctors I trust. Getting my medication right. Establishing routines that keep me functional.”

I wasn’t expecting that—the medication part. The vulnerability in his voice when he says it.

“Medication for what?” I ask, then immediately backtrack. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that. That’s personal.”

“It’s okay. I have uh, anxiety. And OCD.” He says it flatly, like he’s reading from a medical chart. “I have intrusive thoughts—worst-case scenarios on repeat. My brain likes to convince me that everything is about to fall apart, and the only way to prevent it is to control every variable in my environment.”

I think about the seventeen-page contract, the alphabetized spice rack, the way he washed my coffee mug within twelve minutes of me setting it down. His whole energy that I thought was just a mister-type A alpha thing is…anxiety and OCD?

“That sounds exhausting,” I say softly.

“It is.” He’s not looking at me now, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “Therapy helps. So does medication. But it took a long time to find what works, and if I move to Alaska, I have to start over. New doctors. New routines. Time zones that’ll mess with my circadian rhythm. New everything.”

Without thinking, I push the plate of cookies toward him. He glances at it, then at me, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Or gratitude.

He takes another cookie. “Anyway, my friend Foster suggested that having ties to the community might be enough to get my boss off my back,” he continues. “A serious relationship. Roots. Something that makes it harder to justify uprooting me.”

“So you decided to… what? Trick your roommate into being your fake girlfriend?”

“It seemed logical at the time.”

“Logical.” I let out a disbelieving huff. “It’s insane.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“Why couldn’t you just… I don’t know, get a real girlfriend? You’re not exactly hard to look at.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel my cheeks flush. “I mean—you know. You’re tall. And employed. Women like that.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t do relationships.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.” His eyes meet mine briefly.

“Like, not even in college? High school?”

“No.”

I stare at him. “You’ve never had a girlfriend.”

“No.”

“But you’ve…” I gesture vaguely, feeling my face heat up. “You know. You’re not a virgin.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost forming a smile. “I’ve had sex, Emmie. I’m not a monk.”

“Right. Okay. Good to know.” I’m definitely blushing now. “So you’ve had sex, but never a relationship. Why?”

He’s quiet for so long that I don’t think he’s going to answer. When he finally does, his voice is rougher than before.

“I grew up in foster care. Eleven homes before I aged out. Then I joined the military, which gave me structure but not exactly emotional intelligence.” He picks at the edge of his cookie. “I don’t trust easily. I don’t know how to… open up. Let people in. And women usually want…more.”

“So you’re not good at feelings?” I suggest.

“Not good at being human,” he corrects, and there’s a wryness to it that makes my chest ache.

I think about what he said earlier. Intrusive thoughts. Worst-case scenarios. A brain that constantly tells him everything is about to fall apart.