Page 20 of Until We Come Home

“I’m just saying, it’s a lot of forest.” I hug my legs tighter. “Do you ever get creeped out by this place? It’s charming, but I’m a city girl at heart. It feels like someone could peek through the pines at any second.”

He shrugs. “Nope. Doesn’t bother me. I prefer the city too, but I don’t mind it out here. It’s quiet.”

“Classic guy answer,” I say. “Nothing scares the brave firefighter.”

“Foxes definitely don’t,” he says. “Besides, you’re more likely to get mugged back home than eaten by anything in these woods.”

“Maybe, but I understand LA,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around my knees. “I know which alleys to avoid after midnight. Out here, I don’t know what any of these noises mean. Case in point: the screaming fox.”

He laughs, and the laugh turns into a yawn. I look back toward the hallway leading to my room, picturing that big window staring out into the pines, and my stomach turns over at the thought of going back in there alone.

“Hmm,” I say. “I think I’ll stay here, though, if that’s okay.”

He grins at me. “Mia.”

“Please? I’m fully freaked out now,” I say, giving him my best pleading face, the one that has gotten me out of more than one parking ticket. “If I go back over there, I’m going to lie awake staring at that window until sunrise, and then I’ll be a total zombie tomorrow, and it’ll be all your fault.”

“My fault,” he repeats flatly.

“You failed to mention the local wildlife goes out screaming at two in the morning. That’s basic hospitality.”

“It’s Calvin’s cabin.”

“You’re the current occupant.”

He shakes his head at the ceiling, fighting a smile, before lifting the edge of the quilt. “Fine. Wall side. Don’t push it.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I scramble right over his legs to get to the far side, avoiding the window, and my bare foot catches him squarely on the shin along the way.

“Ow, Jesus,” he groans, jerking his leg back. “It’s the middle of summer, how are your feet like ice.”

“Freezing and probably broken,” I inform him, wriggling down under the quilt until only my face is showing. “I’ll never dance again.”

“From stubbing your toe?” he asks, and I lift my head off the pillow to give him a flat look.

“You heard that?”

“I thought I heard something,” he says, and I can hear the smile in it. “Took me a second to put two and two together. And I think you’ll dance again.”

“How do you know? You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m an EMT,” he says.

“Oh, yeah. I always forget that,” I say, settling back down. “I should make more use of that. Free medical care, right down the hall.”

“My medical advice is to turn a light on before you walk into furniture,” he says, and I giggle while he rolls over to reach for the lamp.

The lamp clicks off, and we’re back in the dark. But it’s an easy kind of darkness now, the comfortable sort that comes from sharing space with another person, hearing him shift and settle just inches away, and all the previous creepiness vanishes.

I get comfortable, though it quickly becomes apparent that this mattress isn't particularly roomy. It's a modest double at best, and Mateo's broad frame easily occupies two-thirds of the space, even as he makes a conscious effort to hug his side so he doesn't crowd me.

Outside, the fox lets out one more distant scream, and my thoughts drift to the upcoming months. Teaching the kids over at Meridian and building the piece for the benefit, shooting videos with Lark, and spending a whole season in the same city as Mateo.

His breathing deepens into a slow rhythm, the heat coming off him keeping the cool AC air at bay while the window unit hums in the background. My eyelids grow heavy, and the throbbing in my toe finally fades away.

I shift onto my side, tucking the heavy quilt up around my shoulders.

“Goodnight, Mateo,” I whisper.