Here To Stay

Corrian stops by an empty hallway and pauses just long enough to throw words over his shoulder.

“Accommodation is included.”

“Sorry?” I breathe the words out, because how is this getting more intense and weird, when it’s been the most weird and intense day already.

He glances back, eyes cool and unreadable. 

“Room, board, it all comes with the job.”

I stare at him like he’s spoken in tongues. 

“You mean…I get to live here?”

He nods, completely unaffected, this is standard policy, they must offer free housing to random emotionally unstable women who show up with lollipops all the time.

I gawk.

“In this building?”

“No,” he says. “Over the ridge.”

I squint. “There’s a ridge?”

He hums like I’m being dramatic. Which I am. But also…what?

“I didn’t see a house on my trek in,” I say.

“You wouldn’t have.” He starts walking again, motioning for me to follow. “It’s tucked into the trees. Private and quiet. You’ll have your own space. Whatever you need.”

“You’re giving me a house?” I say, half-laughing. “In exchange for watching kids that are special in one way or another?”

“No, you’ll have your own space in our house.” His reply is carefully worded, I can hear him choosing the right words. “The building is more than large enough.”

I follow in stunned silence. Skipping over the, sharing a house with five monstrously large and extremely hot confusing men, part for a moment. Holy, shit! My apartment has black mold and a rat den, it's not...this.

We arrive at a glass wall, one of those fancy ones that opens all the way, the view is a sucker-punches. It's breathtaking.

The idea that beyond this building, a little piece of it could be mine, even temporarily, shatters me.

He pulls it open and the air rushes in, dousing the cloying heat that's been dogging me since I arrived.

Miles of unbroken forest are laid out before us. Trees rolling like waves, gold light breaking through the branches, fields of wildflowers wave at me softly. Insects buzz between leaves, making their own sweet melody. 

It’s so beautiful it hurts.

I don’t get to have beautiful things.

Not since the night my life cracked in half and the red wouldn't come off my hands. Not since I watched my family torn to pieces by something I still can’t name, not since the sirens and the silence and the lonely years that followed. The dark fog where my meagre good memories are buried.

No friends, no roots, no softness. Just me.

I sniff one.

Then again.

“Don’t,” I whisper to myself.

Please, please, not now.

But the view is too much, the quiet too kind.

Untying my hoodie from my waist, I slip the sleeve over my hand and use it to soak up fat tears that are making their way down my cheeks.

This is so embarrassing. 

When I glance up, Corrian’s watching me with a look that isn't smug or sharp or bossy. It’s soft.

He understands.

But he doesn’t say anything or call me out. He just moves a fraction closer, hand flexing like he wants to touch me but won’t, until I give him permission.

So I give it.

Not with words, with gravity. My body moves before my brain approves it, something inside me already knows it’s okay, and I lean into him.

Corrian doesn’t breathe for a beat. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tucks me under his arm. Fuck me sideways, I didn’t realize how badly I needed this. 

How touch deprived are you girl?

Seeing a man this huge across a room and pressing your body into one, are two very different things. His chest is solid against my side, ribs rising and falling in that calm, controlled way. I’m not small or delicate, but next to him? I feel like I could curl up in his hoodie pocket and ride shotgun.

The tension in his frame melts the second I settle against him. His jaw unclenches, arm wraps just a little tighter, I’ve slotted into a place he’s been holding open too long. 

And even though this is objectively insane, he’s a stranger, my shiny new boss, and I’m one emotional sneeze away from a breakdown. I’ve never felt safer in my entire goddamn life.

He holds me while I sniffle against his flannel like an emotionally constipated raccoon. It’s kind of devastating.

The silence stretches, nice and comfortable.

Which is bad.

Because now my brain catches up, trips over itself, and starts scream-whispering WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, FRANKIE?!

I stumble back a step, immediately regretting it, but trying to salvage the chaos that is my face.

“Sorry,” I mumble, wiping at my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie, a toddler in crisis. “It’s been a long day. And also a long year. And a really long life.”

He doesn’t move, just looks with an unreadable expression. His eyes drop to the space between us, the one I just created in my panic. He stares at it for a beat, forehead creasing.

Then he lifts his gaze back to mine and for one agonising second, he looks absolutely wrecked. It’s gone before I can process it.

He straightens, adjusts his stance, slides effortlessly back into that quietly commanding posture.

“Let’s get the others.” He says. “We'll take you to see the place.”

Back to business.

Did I completely imagine we just had ‘a moment’?

Did my heart not just squeeze for a man who may or may not be running a murder cult?

Did I not just get pussy flutters?

Cool, cool, cool.