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The question blindsided me. “What? Here? To Gatlinburg?”

“Yeah. I’ve got three days off shift. You’re not far.”

My first instinct was to say no. To keep my messy little healing bubble intact. To keep all Jasper Creek people at arm’s length, where their expectations and memories couldn’t reach me.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “My place is a disaster. And I⁠—”

“That’s not what I asked,” he cut in gently. “I asked if I can come over.”

When had all the men in my life learned to get past my deflections?

I rubbed my forehead. “You’re really worried about him.”

“I am,” Michael said. “And I think you are too, or you wouldn’t be calling me.”

He had me there.

“Okay,” I said, the word tasting like surrender and relief at the same time. “Yeah. You can come over.”

“I’ll text you when I’m close.”

We hung up, and I stared at my phone for a long time.

Then, because apparently being a functioning adult was mandatory, I cleaned up all my drawings. Other than that, the apartment was pretty neat.

By the time Michael texted that he was in the parking lot, my heart was racing like I’d drunk three espressos.

I opened the door before he could knock.

He looked tired. Firefighter tired—lines around the eyes, faint soot stain at the edge of his hairline, that weight men like him carried when they spent their days walking into other people’s bad nights.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

For a second, we just stood there. Then he gave me a short, awkward hug—careful, not crowding. I appreciated that more than he knew.

“Come in,” I said, stepping back.

He glanced around as he walked into the apartment. His gaze took in the two panels taped to the wall that I had missed. Then the one on the refrigerator. I sighed.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” he said.

“Better than the alternative,” I replied.

We sat at the small table. I poured him iced tea because that was the most hospitable thing I could manage, and we both stared at our glasses like they might have answers.

“How is he?” I asked quietly.

Michael didn’t sugarcoat it. One of the things I liked about him.

“He works,” he said. “He goes home. On off days, he either hits Cappy’s gym or he doesn’t leave the house. He’s stopped grabbing beers with the guys. Stopped coming by to help with random projects. He’s… shrinking.”

The word hit me harder than I expected.

“Shrinking,” I repeated.

“Yeah. Like he’s folding in on himself. You know how he used to be first in line for stupid shit? Climbing on roofs to hang Christmas lights? Volunteering for every crap overtime shift? He doesn’t even do that anymore. It’s just work, gym, home. Rinse, repeat.”