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“He sounds…” Phineas’ voice trailed off, as if searching for polite words.

“Like an idiot?” I supplied. “Absolutely. The biggest idiot I know. Also the kindest.” I paused, letting the quiet settle before adding, “He’d like you. Blade just shows up with tools and terrible jokes and stays until you laugh at one of them.”

Phineas lifted his head slowly, just enough that I could see one red-rimmed eye peeking over the curve of his forearm. He looked wrecked. Exhausted, terrified, and utterly spent, tiredness that went past bone into something deeper.

“You know now.” His voice cracked on the last word. “You know my shame.”

The word landed in my gut like a fist. Shame. He thought the bruise was his shame. Thought the violence someone else had carved into his skin belonged to him, a scarlet letter he’d been forced to wear under his clothes.

Looking at him, I saw the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders. He’d been carrying this alone for god knew how long, hiding the evidence, managing the story, performing normalcy while his body kept the score in purple and black.

“Phineas.” I waited until that one eye met mine. “The only person who should feel shame is the man who put that mark on you. Not you. Never you.”

His eye squeezed shut. Even from where I sat, I could see the way his jaw clenched, the way his throat worked around something too big to swallow. A single tear slipped down his cheek.

That tear undid something in my gut.

Moving slowly, telegraphing every inch, I shifted onto my hands and knees and crawled across the hardwood. Not standing or looming. Just closing the distance on all fours like I was approaching something wounded in the underbrush. When I reached him, I settled back against the wall beside him, close enough that our arms nearly touched.

“I’m going to put my arm around you now,” I said quietly. “If that’s okay.”

Phineas didn’t answer with words. He turned his face into my shoulder instead, his forehead pressing hard against the muscle there, and his whole body started shaking. Not crying, just tremors running through him like aftershocks, the release of tension that had been held too long.

I wrapped my arm around him and pulled him against my side, tucking him under my chin. He fit there like he’d been designed for the space, small and warm and trembling, his fingers curling into the fabric of my T-shirt with a desperate grip. His scent filled my lungs.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured against his hair.

He didn’t speak. Just held on. His tears soaked through my shirt, hot against my skin, and I let him cry. Let him shake. Let him fall apart in the safety of my arms because someone had to hold him while he did it, and I’d be damned if it wasn’t me.

My wolf settled inside me, still watchful, still waiting, but quieter now. The kill could wait. This couldn’t.

A blur of motion erupted through the kitchen doorway, paws skidding on hardwood, and then an oversized German shepherd puppy came barreling toward us with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. She was five months old and ninety percent enthusiasm, a fuzzy black-and-tan missile with oversized ears that hadn’t quite learned to stand up straight.

The puppy skidded to a halt three feet away, her whole body wiggling with the force of her tail. She stared at Phineas, head tilting one way then the other. Something shifted in her expression—the manic puppy energy draining away as if someone had flipped a switch. Her tail slowed from frantic wagging to a gentle sweep, and she lowered her head, approaching with careful steps.

When she reached Phineas, she didn’t jump or lick or do any of the obnoxious things she usually did to strangers. She simply tucked her nose into the curve of his neck and huffed out a soft breath.

Phineas made a sound I couldn’t name. His hand came up and sank into the puppy’s fur, fingers curling into the soft scruff at her neck. The puppy—Noodles, Gunner, whatever we were calling her this week—pressed closer, wedging herself into the small space between Phineas’ chest and his knees, and let out a contented little grumble.

“A dog,” Phineas whispered, his voice wrecked but wondering. “You told me you had a dog.”

“Her name’s under debate,” I said. “Crowbar wants to call her Gunner. His boyfriend, Spencer, calls her Noodles. Everyone is divided. It’s been ongoing for months, and nobody’s won yet.”

Phineas wrapped both arms around the puppy and buried his face in her fur. His shoulders heaved once, twice, and then the tension started bleeding out of him in slow, uneven increments. The dog stayed perfectly still, her tail giving an occasional soft thump against the floor, her dark eyes half-closed in what looked like pure contentment.

Watching them, I felt something shift in my chest. Not desire or protectiveness. Something quieter. A recognition, maybe, of a piece clicking into place I hadn’t known was missing.

This was what I wanted. Not fixing what was broken. Not just hunting down the man who’d hurt him. This. Mornings. Dogs. The quiet after tears. The steady work of building something safe enough to fall apart in.

Phineas lifted his head, and his eyes were red-rimmed. He looked like hell and like home and everything I’d ever wanted.

“I can’t go back there,” he said, and the words came out on a shaky exhale, fragile as a newborn foal trying to stand. “I can’t. I know I should—I know everything’s there, my clothes, my things, I haven’t planned anything—but if I walk through that door again, I don’t think I’ll ever walk back out.”

“You’re not going back.” I said it the same way I’d said everything else this morning—calm, certain, leaving no room for argument. “You’re staying here. As long as you need. As long as you want. My room is yours. The fridge is yours. The dog’s yours, apparently. Nobody comes through that door unless you want them to.”

“I don’t have—I can’t pay—”

“Don’t care.”