The semi’s headlights exploded out of the fog like twin suns, washing James’s windshield in hard white light as his truck tore along I-84. For a heartbeat it felt like the whole Pacific Northwest night narrowed to a tunnel of glass and steel—the Oregon highway, the endless stripes of asphalt, the low hum of the engine under his palms.

And over all of that, his mother’s voice in his ear.

“People die on these roads every day, James,” she said, the warning sharp even through the speaker. “You think you’re invincible just because you’re in that big truck?”

He laughed without meaning to—one short, helpless burst of amusement that fogged the cab more than his breath did.

“Why are you laughing?” Dawn demanded. He could picture her perfectly: standing in the kitchen of their little house back in Washington State, dish towel thrown over her shoulder, one hand on her hip, the cordless phone pressed tight to her ear.

“Because,” he said, easing his foot on the gas as the semi whooshed past, “I’m actually driving right now, too.”

There was a pause—two seconds of dead silence that felt like the world holding its breath.

Then his full name detonated through the speaker.

“JAMES THOMPSON, you hang up this phone right this instant. Do you hear me?”

Her panic cut cleaner than the truck’s horn. He could almost feel it hustling down the line from their small town in Washington to this lonely stretch of interstate outside Pendleton.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Say hi to Dad. Love you.”

He ended the call, the screen going dark, the cab falling into the soft drone of tires on highway and the faint rattle of plastic against plastic. He set the phone in the cup holder, wrapped both hands around the steering wheel, and let the smile linger for a moment before the road reclaimed his full attention.

People said he got his drive from his father—Ry, the guy who never took a sick day in twenty-five years of driving a city bus. But the truth was different. The relentless part of him, the part that clenched its jaw and refused to quit, the part that believed he could bend circumstances through sheer persistence alone—that came from Dawn.

Dawn, who looked like she should be teaching kindergarten, not mopping school hallways. Petite, blonde, soft features, eyes that always seemed ready to laugh—and inside, that core of steel.

His assistant, Dustin, called him “my fanatic boss” when he thought James couldn’t hear. It wasn’t meant kindly, but James didn’t mind. Fanatics got things done. Fanatics turned a rented refrigerated truck and a borrowed storage unit into a wholesale frozen-foods company that now supplied half the diners, restaurants, and mom-and-pop grocery stores from Portland to Boise.

Not bad for the son of a janitor and a bus driver.

He checked the time on the dashboard. Past nine. Too late to stop by the main warehouse again, too early to justify calling Dustin with another list of questions. The Friday traffic on the outskirts of the city had thinned; out here the highway felt less like infrastructure and more like a river of asphalt sliding through forests, fields, and quiet sleeping towns.

No matter how far his business took him, the Pacific Northwest always looked the same in certain pockets—dark pines, low clouds, cheap gas stations with flickering neon. It grounded him.

And whenever he pushed himself too hard, whenever the pressure in his chest built to that familiar dull ache, he escaped to places just like that.

He saw the gas station before he realized he’d decided to stop: a lonely little island of light off the highway, a faded sign buzzing with tired neon. EXIT 178, some half-forgotten junction between nowhere and someplace people drove through without stopping.

He pulled in on instinct.

The pump clicked into place, fuel gurgling into the tank. The air smelled like gasoline and drying grass. Inside the mini-mart, he could see the glow of refrigerators, a teenage clerk staring at a phone, rows of snacks and sodas and the same brand of coffee that had been bad since the ’90s.

It was the kind of place that could have been anywhere in America.

James stepped away from the truck, rolling his shoulders. The sky was settling into a deep, bruise-colored blue. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn sounded—a long, lonely wail floating over fields and flat land.

He was thinking about hot dogs and nothing at all when the shout broke the quiet.

“Let the dog go! I said let her go!”

The voice was sharp, female, young. Not the fake outrage of an argument—real fear, real anger. It cut across the concrete, bounced off the walls of the station, stuck in his nerves.

James straightened, turning toward the sound.

Under the tall lamp in the corner of the lot, four teenage boys in hoodies and sagging jeans surrounded someone—no, not someone, a girl. A young woman with a cascade of red hair, jeans muddy up to her knees, a cropped denim jacket that had seen better days. In her arms, a dirty white dog wriggled and whined, tail tucked, eyes wide and confused.

One of the boys made another grab for the animal’s collar, more to impress his friends than to hurt it. The girl stepped back, jaw tight, hugging the dog closer.

“I said let her go,” she repeated, voice shaking with fury. “She’s not yours.”

“Relax, ginger,” one of the boys sneered. “We’re just playing. Right, princess?” He clapped his hands near the dog’s face, making it flinch.

James didn’t think about it. He never thought much when his gut told him something was wrong.

“Hey.” His voice carried, low and flat. “That’s enough.”

Four heads swiveled. The girl turned too, eyes flicking over him—tall, broad-shouldered, worn jeans, work boots, a dark jacket thrown over a T-shirt with his company logo. Behind him, his truck loomed, white and boxy, humming softly.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“You heard him,” the redhead said quickly, seizing the opening. “Go home.”

One of the boys snorted. “Who are you, her dad?”

“No,” James said calmly. “I’m the guy with the hunting rifle in the cab and a long day behind him. You really want to see how far my patience goes tonight?”

That did it.

He didn’t touch the gun. Didn’t move toward it. But he didn’t have to. The picture was vivid enough: a tired, no-nonsense man with a truck and a firearm and no interest in playing games. In rural Oregon, that image carried weight.

The boys muttered something about “crazy people” and “whatever, dude,” then drifted away into the dark like smoke.

The girl exhaled slowly and set the dog down. It stuck to her side anyway, tail wagging tentatively. Under the dirt, James could see it was some kind of mixed breed—medium-sized, floppy ears, big scared eyes that softened as soon as the boys were gone.

She looked younger up close. Twenty, maybe. Maybe less. Hard to tell under the exhaustion and the dirt smudged along her jaw.

“Thanks,” she said, hugging her arms around herself now that the dog was safe. “I really didn’t want to get in a fight in front of the Doritos.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Would’ve been one for the security cameras.”

She smiled, quick and crooked. The dog leaned into her leg, pressing there like it already belonged to her.

“You okay?” James asked. “You look like you’ve walked through half of Oregon.”

At that, something tightened in her face. The humor dimmed, the shadows under her eyes deepened.

“Feels more like half the country,” she said. “But yeah. I’m fine.” She hesitated, then brushed hair from her face with a dirty knuckle. “I’m Stephanie.”

“James.” He nodded toward the dog. “And this?”

“She’s… Presto,” Stephanie decided, as if naming the dog made it more real, more permanent. “She just kind of… found me. I gave her one sausage outside a grocery store in Spokane, and she’s been following me like a planet since.”

“Loyal,” James said.

“Desperate,” Stephanie countered softly. “Kind of like me.”

The words slipped out so quickly he wasn’t sure she meant to say them. They hung between them for a moment, carried on the chill air.

Cars pulled in, filled up, drove away. The teenage clerk inside the mart never looked up from his phone. Somewhere, a radio played a dull country song about heartbreak and Chevy trucks.

“Where are you headed?” James asked.

She lifted one shoulder. “Nowhere in particular.” Then, after a beat: “Not home. That’s something.”

He recognized the tightness around her mouth. He’d seen it on runaways drifting through bus stations, on young warehouse workers who flinched when older men got too close. It was the look of someone who’d left because staying was worse.

“You’re not from around here,” he said.

She laughed under her breath. “What gave it away? The fact that all my clothes double as a map of U.S. motel carpets? Or the accent?”

He listened more closely. Not Southern. Not East Coast. Somewhere in the middle, flat vowels smoothed by TV and chain store speakers.

“You’re safe for now,” he said. “You need a ride somewhere? Bus station? Motel?”

Her eyes flicked to his truck, then back to his face.

“I’m not supposed to get into cars with strangers,” she said.

“Good rule,” he replied. “You planning on sleeping in the gas station bathroom instead?”

She looked at the dog, then at the wide, empty road beyond the parking lot. The neon buzzed overhead, the sky sinking into black.

“No,” she admitted. “I was planning on… I don’t know. Walking until someplace looks less depressing, then figuring it out.”

He studied her—thin but not starving, eyes bloodshot but clear, clothes cheap but carefully layered for warmth. Not high. Not drunk. Just tired down to the bone.

He remembered being twenty-one and broke. He remembered looking at the world like it was a locked door and he was the only idiot without a key.

“You’re not the first person to run,” he said quietly. “You won’t be the last.”

Stephanie’s fingers curled in Presto’s fur. The dog nudged her hand, as if agreeing.

“If I wanted a lecture about life choices, I would’ve stayed with my mom,” she muttered.

“Fair enough.” He leaned against the truck, crossing his arms. “How about a job instead?”

That got her attention.

She blinked at him. “What?”

“A job,” he repeated. “I’ve got a guest house that needs someone to live in it and keep things in order. Cleaning, cooking basic stuff, dealing with deliveries when I’m not there. I pay fairly. I don’t yell. Much. You’d have a roof, a bed, food, Wi-Fi.”

He kept his tone matter-of-fact, like he was discussing a shipment schedule. Inside, a small part of him wondered what the hell he was doing. Hiring a stranger from a gas station? This wasn’t him. He didn’t improvise like this.

But another part, older and quieter, knew exactly what this was. His mother’s voice, deep in his memory: If you ever see a kid who needs a hand, and you can help without hurting yourself, you help. That’s all there is to it.

Stephanie stared at him. The dog sat down on her foot.

“You’re serious?” she asked.

“Completely.”

“You usually recruit staff at gas stations?”

“Only the ones who argue with teenagers over dogs and still stand their ground,” he said.

She snorted in spite of herself. “You don’t even know me.”

“Correct.” He shrugged. “But I grew up poor. I know the difference between someone who’s a mess and someone who’s in one. You look like the second kind.”

Silence stretched. A truck rumbled past on the highway. The pump clicked behind them, signaling his tank was full.

“You some kind of serial killer?” she asked finally.

“If I were, I’d give a much better sales pitch,” James said dryly. “And I wouldn’t offer a 401(k.”

A laugh escaped her then—short and disbelieving, but real. Her shoulders dropped half an inch.

Presto looked from one to the other, sensing the shift, tail giving a cautious wag.

“Okay,” Stephanie said, surprising herself as much as him. “I’ll come. But if you turn out to be weird, I’m stealing your dog.”

“It’s not my dog,” he said. “And for the record, my mother would murder me long before you ever got the chance.”

“Must be a terrifying woman,” she murmured.

“You have no idea.”

He opened the passenger door of the truck, and she boosted Presto up first, then climbed in after her, the smell of dog, damp fabric, and cheap shampoo filling the cab.

An hour later, as the Oregon night unfolded around them and the interstate carried them toward the suburbs outside Portland, James realized the entire trajectory of his carefully ordered life had just changed.

And he didn’t know yet whether that terrified him—or thrilled him.

He learned the rest of Stephanie’s story in pieces.

Not because she wanted to talk, but because long drives and late evenings had a way of shaking loose words people thought they’d buried.

Her mother was a nurse in a mid-sized town in the Midwest, working nights at a hospital, the kind of woman who lived in scrubs and sensible shoes and came home smelling faintly of antiseptic and exhaustion. For years, it had been just the two of them in a small apartment—tight on money, tight on space, tight on everything but tension.

When Stephanie was eighteen, her mother started dating Danny, a mechanic with oil-stained hands and loud opinions about everything from politics to how long a girl should stay out. At first, he’d seemed fine—stable, if frustratingly strict.

Then little things changed.

A hand lingering on her shoulder too long. Jokes that weren’t quite jokes about her clothes, her body. Comments when her mother wasn’t in the room. It wasn’t one big moment, just a thousand tiny ones that piled up until they pressed on her chest like a weight.

“I tried to tell her,” Stephanie said one evening, her voice flat as the truck rolled through a line of red lights downtown. “I told her he wasn’t right with me. That he crossed lines. You know what she said? She said I was trying to ruin her happiness. That I was jealous.”

The words still stung. James heard it in the way she spat “jealous” like it tasted bad.

“She believed him over you,” he said, not as a question.

“Of course she did. He said I made things up, that maybe I needed to move out, grow up, stop causing drama.” Stephanie watched the city blur past the window. “So I did. I moved out. Took what I had saved from my part-time job, packed a backpack, and left. No big fight. No dramatic goodbye. Just… gone.”

There was no pride in her voice. Just resignation.

“And your dad?” James asked.

She gave a half-shrug. “He lives in Utah now, somewhere near Salt Lake. New wife, twin boys, a house with a porch. I hadn’t heard from him in years. I thought maybe I could stay with them. Tried my luck.”

“How’d that go?”

“He wasn’t home.” She smiled, a small, brittle thing. “His wife answered. She was nice about it, in that careful way. Said she could see I was his kid, that the red hair kind of gave it away. But the house was full. Their finances were tight. This wasn’t a boarding house. She let me sleep on the couch, made me breakfast, and told me I should go back to my mother. I didn’t blame her. She’s not my villain.”

“And your mom still hadn’t called the cops?” James asked.

“Missing person report?” Stephanie’s laugh was humorless. “No. My friends checked. She just assumed I was crashing with somebody. Said I’d crawl back when winter came because I hate the cold.”

The matter-of-fact cruelty of that stuck with him.

He didn’t have children. He barely had time to remember to eat lunch some days. But he couldn’t picture looking at any kid—especially one with his blood in their veins—and shrugging like that.

“You can stay as long as you like,” he said quietly. “At my place. This isn’t charity. You’ll earn your keep. But you won’t be sleeping on bus station benches again.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. Presto, sprawled awkwardly across her lap, snored softly.

“You talk like my college guidance counselor,” she murmured. “Only with a better truck.”

“You went to college?” He hadn’t expected that.

“Community college. Accounting. My mom picked it. ‘Stable,’ she said. ‘Numbers don’t judge. They pay bills.’ She wasn’t wrong. I just…” Stephanie opened her eyes and looked at him. “I hated it. I spent more time doodling in the margins than listening to balance sheets.”

“You draw,” James said.

“Yeah.” She smiled, this time less bitter, more private. “But drawing doesn’t pay rent. That’s what I grew up hearing.”

He didn’t argue. It didn’t matter whether drawing paid anything now. What mattered was that she had something that belonged to her alone, some fragile, stubborn spark that hadn’t been stamped out by Danny’s rules or her mother’s exhaustion.

He felt an odd twist of anger on her behalf. Anger, and a very specific, unwanted sense of responsibility.

You brought her here, he reminded himself. You don’t get to just drop her off and wish her luck.

James’s house sat at the edge of a small, woodsy subdivision outside Portland, Oregon—far enough from downtown to see stars on clear nights, close enough that you could still get sushi delivered if you felt like pretending you lived in a movie.

The main house was understated but expensive: cedar siding, big windows, a long driveway that curved past a stand of fir trees. Behind it, tucked slightly down a slope and half-hidden by rhododendrons, stood the guest cottage.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean. A small living area, a bedroom, a bathroom with good water pressure, and a kitchenette stocked with basic cookware and the kind of brand-name groceries that made Stephanie’s throat tighten when she saw them. Things she’d put back on shelves more than once because they were “too much” for their budget.

“You’ll stay here,” he said, flipping on the lights. “There’s security on the property. Door code is here, cameras cover the driveway and the back fence. You’ll have your own keys. I won’t walk in without knocking unless there’s a fire.”

She stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, one hand wrapped in Presto’s collar. Her eyes flicked from the neatly made bed to the small table, to the framed print on the wall—some generic landscape that suddenly looked like luxury.

“You sure?” she asked softly.

“About you staying here?” He nodded. “Yes.”

“You don’t know me,” she said again, but less like a protest and more like she was reminding them both of something real.

“I know enough,” he replied. “I know you didn’t try to steal my wallet when I went inside to pay for gas. I know you jumped between a scared dog and four idiots twice your size. I know your first instinct is sarcasm instead of flattery. That’s a decent resume.”

She snorted, then bit her lip to stop the smile.

“There’s a phone charging on the counter,” he added. “Smartphone. New number. Use it. Call whoever you want. Just don’t give my address to your stepfather if he decides he’s suddenly sentimental.”

“Danny doesn’t do sentimental,” she said. “But thanks.”

“You’ll have a salary,” he continued. “We’ll go over details tomorrow. Today you shower. Sleep. Try not to run away in the middle of the night thinking it’s all some kind of trap.”

“You know,” she said slowly, stepping inside as Presto trotted forward to sniff everything in sight. “If this is a weird abduction thing, you’re really over-investing in props.”

“Yeah,” he said with a dry little smile. “It’s a terrible business model.”

He left her to settle in, walking back up the path to the main house. As his hand closed around the doorknob, he caught a faint sound behind him—Stephanie’s laughter, muffled through the cottage wall, as Presto apparently did something ridiculous.

The sound lodged somewhere in his chest.

The next weeks slid into something new.

He was used to living alone. Used to walking into a quiet house where only the hum of the fridge greeted him. Used to working until midnight, eating whatever he grabbed from the nearest drive-through, collapsing into bed, then starting again.

Now, there were small differences.

The kitchen counters stayed clean even when he’d left them in a rush. The fridge held actual meals in labeled containers—pasta, roasted vegetables, a surprisingly good chicken pot pie—that he hadn’t ordered, hadn’t thought about, but devoured after long days without thinking.

The guest cottage light glowed in the evenings while he worked in his office. Sometimes he caught glimpses of Stephanie crossing the yard with Presto, her red hair bright even under cloudy skies. On weekends, he heard soft music drifting from her open window—something mellow, not pop, not country. Piano, guitars, voices that sounded a little like hope and a little like regret.

She cleaned the house, yes. Changed sheets, vacuumed, kept the office from becoming a disaster. But she didn’t hover. She moved with the easy invisibility of someone who had learned to make herself small in other people’s spaces.

If she hadn’t been walking Presto or humming faintly when she thought no one could hear, he might have forgotten there was someone living thirty yards away.

Until he saw the drawings.

It happened on a Sunday afternoon after a warehouse run. He’d dropped by the cottage to ask if she needed anything from town. She wasn’t there; Presto greeted him instead, wagging furiously. The door was unlocked. On the small table by the window lay a cheap sketchbook, open, a graphite pencil resting across it.

He knew better than to pry.

He opened it anyway.

The first page was a cartoonish doodle of Presto—ears too big, eyes too round, tongue lolling. The second was more careful: the curve of the dog’s body as she slept, paws twitching in some dream chase. Then came studies of hands, mugs, shoes tossed near the door. A potted plant. The side of the cottage. His truck.

Then, halfway through the book, he turned a page and saw himself.

Not a formal portrait. Not a flattering, smoothed-out version. Him as he was: head bent over his laptop at the kitchen table, one hand curled around a coffee mug, hair slightly messy, jaw shadowed by a day’s stubble. The lines were quick but precise, catching the tilt of his mouth when he was reading something annoying, the way his shoulders hunched when he was deep in thought.

Another page: him from behind, standing at the big window in the living room, staring out at the trees, phone pressed to his ear. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, see his father’s truck in the driveway. The sketch caught a tension in the line of his spine he didn’t know other people noticed.

He exhaled slowly.

You have a surprisingly level head on your shoulders, he had told her. He’d missed something. She didn’t just have a level head. She had an observant eye. A quiet, patient gaze that saw more than people wanted to show.

He closed the sketchbook, carefully, exactly the way he’d found it, and stepped back.

He’d meant to ask about it that evening. But she came back with arms full of groceries, cheeks pink from the chill, talking about the sale they had on chicken thighs, and he let it slide. For now.

Life settled again. Work was relentless. Dustin piled documents on his desk, muttered about suppliers and shipment delays and expansion projections. James drove, negotiated, signed, pushed.

His parents called more often.

His mother no longer lectured him about driving while on the phone. Her worries had shifted.

“You’re thirty-five,” she said once, very quietly, as if speaking too loudly might break something. “Your father and I were married at twenty-four. We had you at twenty-six. Your cousin Andrew…” She trailed off.

James didn’t need to hear the rest. He knew the story. Andrew, the handsome one, the bright one, the one who’d fallen in love with a girl who never loved him back. Who’d waited, and watched, and never really moved on. Who grew older and lonelier and quieter until people forgot what he had once wanted.

“I’m not Andrew, Mom,” James said gently.

“I know,” she said. “I just… I want you to be happy with someone before we get too old to help you with the grandkids.”

He laughed it off. “Times are different now. People marry later. Some don’t marry at all.”

“Yes,” Dawn said. “And some tell themselves stories so they don’t notice when they’re standing still.”

He knew what she was implying. He knew the name she was not saying.

Crystal.

His classmate. His first love. The girl with flaxen hair and bright blue eyes, who had sat next to him in third grade and never really moved out of his life until one day she had—gliding away in a pale dress on another man’s arm.

But that was another life. Another boy. Another James.

Or so he told himself.

In the here and now, he was standing in his own kitchen in Oregon, staring at the guest cottage window where a light burned warm and steady, and trying to ignore the fact that he was starting to time his coffee breaks to the sound of Stephanie’s footsteps outside.

He didn’t think of himself as someone who got attached easily. He had short romances, usually while on business trips. Weekend affairs that began in hotel bars and ended at airport security checkpoints. Women who were successful, independent, beautiful—women who wanted the same thing he did: something fun, something fleeting, no questions asked.

They left no scars.

Stephanie was different.

Maybe because she made coffee exactly how he liked it by accident. Maybe because she talked to Presto when she thought no one could hear, narrating her day in a mixture of sarcasm and kindness. Maybe because when she smiled without thinking, something in his chest loosened in a way he couldn’t explain.

He didn’t plan to do anything about it. Of course he didn’t. She lived in his guest house. He was her employer. There were lines, and he respected them. Mostly.

He might have walked that careful line indefinitely if not for three things happening in quick succession.

First, Dustin called one night close to three a.m. with a panic in his voice that didn’t match his usual mild sarcasm.

“James, I’m sorry to bother you. I tried your phone, it’s off. I need you to approve a change to the documents for the potato wedges shipment. The truck’s loading now. If we don’t sort this, the client in Idaho will send us straight to lawsuit land.”

James cursed softly, pulled a T-shirt over his head, and reached for his phone—only to realize it wasn’t on the nightstand.

“Oh, man,” Dustin said. “I called Stephanie. Asked her to go knock on your door. Thought you might’ve fallen asleep somewhere without your phone again.”

He’d done exactly that. But not alone.

James found his phone the next morning on Stephanie’s little table, beside the sketchbook, charging quietly. He found himself remembering the overheard snippet of conversation from the night before, when he’d gone to the door half-dressed and heard his current “kind of seeing each other” woman, Daniela, talking.

“…if you feel so guilty about your little housekeeper,” she’d said, voice smooth and slightly amused, “just fire her. Give her a glowing reference. Pay for a fancy agency to place her somewhere else. It’s not like she’s going to be picky about her next boyfriend if she’s dating her boss now.”

Stephanie had heard that. He knew she had, because her phone had blared right after, the ringtone splitting the air, and she’d stumbled over an apology when she’d delivered his phone through the half-open door.

“I didn’t mean to… hear things,” she’d stammered, cheeks pink, eyes looking everywhere but at him. “Dustin says you need to sign something for the shipment, so. Here.”

He’d watched her retreat, shoulders drawn tight, and something hot and angry had flared in him—not at her, not even at Daniela exactly, but at the entire situation.

The second thing that happened: he finally sat down and flipped through the rest of the sketchbook.

There were twenty-four portraits of him now. Twenty-four.

Different angles, different moods. Him laughing at something on his laptop. Him scowling at an email on his phone. Him leaning against the back porch railing at sunset, arms crossed, the line of his jaw soft in the fading light.

The attention in every line was almost unbearable.

He asked her about them that afternoon, catching her in the cottage as she scooped kibble into Presto’s bowl.

“I saw your drawings,” he said.

Her shoulders went rigid. “You… what?”

“The portraits.” He kept his tone gentle. “You’re good, Stephanie.”

“You had no right to—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have looked without asking. I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry I saw them.”

That flustered her. She sank into a chair, avoiding his gaze, fingers twining together.

“I draw when I’m trying to decide whether to leave,” she said finally, the confession escaping her like steam under a lid. “It’s stupid. I know. When things feel too good, I start waiting for them to blow up. So I pack in my head. And draw your face. It’s like asking myself, ‘Are you sure?’ And every time so far the answer’s been ‘not yet.’”

It hit him harder than he expected.

“Good,” he said quietly. “I’m glad the answer stayed ‘not yet.’”

The third thing happened a week later, when he stood in his office staring at his parents’ text.

We’re thinking of coming down to Oregon for a week, the message read. If that’s okay. Your dad wants to see your life “in the big city.”

He’d smiled at that. Their “big city” was a quiet suburb with wide streets and well-stocked Targets. Still, the thought of having them there—seeing them in his kitchen, his yard—felt suddenly urgent.

Then Dawn had called.

“How’s your heart, James?” she asked after the usual work questions.

“Same as always,” he said. “Overworked, slightly bitter, full of coffee.”

“I mean your love life,” she replied. “That heart.”

He groaned. “Mom…”

“You know what your father wants to see before…” She paused, and the air thickened. She rarely spoke of his health in heavy terms, but recently the doctor’s visits had increased, the pills had multiplied. “He wants to see you settled. Even if it’s pretend.”

“Pretend?” he echoed.

“I’m joking,” she said quickly. “Mostly.” A smile crept into her tone. “Still. If you happened to have a serious girlfriend, we wouldn’t be upset.”

He ended the call with a promise to “see what he could do,” then sat in silence, staring at the neat rows of numbers on his screen.

That was when the wild idea occurred to him.

An idea so ridiculous, so wildly unlike him, that for a full day he ignored it, hoping it would go away.

It didn’t.

The following evening he walked down to Stephanie’s cottage feeling like a man about to attempt a high-wire act without a net.

She opened the door in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, hair piled messily on top of her head, pencil smudges on two fingers. Presto wove around her ankles.

“Hey,” she said. “Everything okay? You look like someone canceled Christmas.”

“My parents are coming,” he said without preamble. “From Washington. For a week.”

She blinked. “That’s… great?”

“It is,” he said. “But there’s something I want to ask you. You can say no. Seriously. If you say no, nothing changes, and I’ll figure something else out. But…”

He exhaled. Might as well jump.

“They’re worried about me,” he said. “About me being alone. About me turning into my cousin Andrew. Long story. They would sleep better if they thought I had someone. So I was wondering if you’d be willing to pretend to be my fiancée while they’re here.”

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind they sometimes shared over coffee. A sharp, electric silence that buzzed against his skin.

“Your… what?” she managed.

“Fake fiancée,” he clarified, wincing at how absurd it sounded out loud. “Just for a week. No weird stuff. No pressure. We’d just… act like we’re together. Hold hands sometimes. Sit close. Share stories. They’d go home happy. And then we could… tell them we broke up later.”

Stephanie stared at him as if he’d suggested they rob a bank in matching Halloween costumes.

He rushed on. “I’ll pay you extra, obviously. And give you a long paid break afterwards. I know it’s a lot to ask. It’s just—”

“James,” she said, and he snapped his mouth shut.

She rubbed her forehead. “Okay, I get why you’re asking. I really do. But have you thought about the end? We fake this week, your dad gets attached, your mom buys us towels with our initials on them, whatever. Then what? You tell them I dumped you? You want to give a man with heart issues a fake heartbreak too?”

He winced. “I’d… find a way to make it gentle.”

“Oh, sure,” she said dryly. “Because fake breakups are famously soft.”

She wasn’t wrong. He knew that. He’d known it before he asked. But desperation had made him greedy.

“And there’s another thing,” she said, quieter now. “You’re… you. Business owner. House. Nice car. College degree. Your mom is smart, and your dad’s no fool. They’ll clock in five seconds that I’m not some polished executive. I barely made it through community college. I clean your countertops. That gap? They’ll feel it. I’m not sure I’m the right actress for that role.”

“You think too little of yourself,” he said reflexively.

She made a face. “Maybe. But your parents sound like people who’ve worked hard their whole lives. People with good instincts. I don’t want to disrespect that with some half-baked performance.”

“Stephanie,” he said softly. “If they see someone who’s kind, smart, and good to me, they won’t care what your diploma says.”

The compliment flustered her. She looked away, shoving hair behind her ear.

“There are actual actors you could hire,” she mumbled. “Women who do improv, or whatever. They’d nail the role. Give them a script and a dress, boom, Hallmark movie.”

“They’d also flirt with my dad for tips,” he said. “And my mom would smell the fake on them from the parking lot.”

Her mouth twitched. “She sounds terrifying.”

“She is, in the kindest way possible.”

She was quiet for a long moment, scratching absently behind Presto’s ear. The dog sighed, leaning into her touch.

“If I say no, will you be okay?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Really. I’ll tell them I’m seeing someone who couldn’t make it.”

“And if I say yes?”

“Then you get a week of pretending you have nicer problems than you actually do,” he said. “And afterward, a long vacation on me. Anywhere in the States. And a massive thank-you I’ll never stop feeling.”

He watched her weigh it. He could almost see the thoughts moving behind her eyes: the awkwardness, the risk, the absurdity—and somewhere in there, the flicker of curiosity.

“You really trust me with this?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“To not embarrass you in front of your parents?”

“They’re already embarrassed by me,” he said. “You can only improve things.”

That got a small laugh out of her.

“Fine,” she said at last, exhaling. “Okay. I’ll do it. But I’m doing it for them, not for you. Your dad and his fishing hat sound like they deserve a happy week.”

A lump rose in his throat. He swallowed it.

“Thank you,” he said. “They’ll be here in two days. We’ll go over details. You can ask me anything you want about my childhood, their habits, whatever. We’ll rehearse if you want.”

She groaned. “Oh my God, this is really happening.”

“It is,” he said, and for the first time since the idea came to him, his fear was edged with something else.

Anticipation.

He should have remembered that nothing ever goes according to plan.

Not in business.

And definitely not when you invite love to sit at the table, even under a fake name.

Two days later, the Thompsons arrived in Oregon.

James spotted their old blue pickup in the stream of cars pouring out of the airport parking garage, the hood sun-faded, the bumper carrying a sticker that read, I PAUSE FOR ELK. His father drove, posture straight despite the stiffness in his shoulders. Dawn sat beside him, wearing the same light blue cardigan she’d owned for fifteen years, hair pinned back, eyes shining with the excitement of being someplace new.

They looked smaller than he remembered. Or maybe he’d simply grown into his own life so much that they seemed to belong to a quieter world.

He waved them over, heart thudding unreasonably fast.

Dawn stepped out first, then stopped dead when she saw Stephanie standing at his side.

Stephanie had done what she could with what she had: simple jeans, a soft cream sweater, hair brushed until it gleamed, the traces of travel and stress softened by a touch of mascara and lip balm. Presto sat calmly at her feet, freshly bathed, fur almost white.

“Mom, Dad,” James said, voice oddly hoarse. “This is Stephanie. My—”

He caught himself just before the word “fiancée” left his tongue too quickly. The plan had been to let it come up a little later, in a quieter setting. To ease them into it.

“Your what?” Dawn asked, eyes narrowing with interest.

He swallowed. “My girlfriend.”

Stephanie slipped her hand into his at exactly the right moment, fingers warm, grip steady. Not desperate, not limp—just right. When she looked up at him, the nervousness in her eyes was layered under something he wasn’t entirely sure was acting.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson,” she said. Her voice was soft but clear.

Ry blinked, then grinned so suddenly and so wide that the years fell off his face.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said, stepping forward to shake her hand with careful gentleness. “We were beginning to think our boy here was married to his delivery schedules.”

Dawn’s eyes sharpened, sweeping over Stephanie in one comprehensive, motherly scan that took in everything from her shoes to the way she stood.

There was a long beat.

Then she smiled. It reached her eyes, crinkling the corners.

“Welcome to the circus, Stephanie,” she said warmly. “We’re very glad to meet you.”

If she thought anything about the timing was strange, she didn’t show it.

The first evening went better than James had dared hope.

They went to a small family-owned restaurant not far from his neighborhood, one with wood tables, string lights, and framed photos of old Portland on the walls. The kind of place with a menu that pretended to be fancy but still offered mashed potatoes like somebody’s grandmother had made them.

Conversation flowed easily. Ry reported on small-town news—who’d sold their house, who’d started raising chickens “for real this time,” whose boat trailer had finally given out. Dawn asked about the business, about the frozen vegetables, about Dustin (“Is he the poor soul answering your phone at all hours?”). James answered, smoothed, translated the complexities into stories.

Stephanie sat beside him, her knee brushing his under the table now and then, her hand resting close enough to his that occasionally their fingers touched. A simple, electrifying contact.

When she spoke, she did so with honesty.

“I was working and studying in the Midwest for a while,” she said when Dawn asked where she was from. “Things at home got… complicated, so I left. James gave me a job. I handle the house, help with little things. I draw in my free time.”

“You draw?” Dawn’s eyes lit up. “James showed us some of your work. That portrait of him almost made us miss our flight.”

Stephanie’s cheeks flushed. “He did?”

“Oh, yes. He pretends nothing matters but work, but he’s very proud when he talks about you.” Dawn said this casually, as if she were commenting on the weather. James nearly choked on his water.

The conversation drifted to art—how Stephanie had always sketched in school notebooks, how her mother had pushed her toward accounting instead, how she was now taking online classes in the evenings.

“Good,” Dawn said firmly. “Life’s too short to spend all your time on things you hate, if you can help it.”

Ry grinned. “Tell that to my old bus route.”

“You loved that bus,” Dawn retorted. “Don’t lie.”

James watched his parents watching Stephanie.

They liked her. He could see it. In the way his father directed jokes her way. In the way Dawn asked questions, listened properly to the answers, nodded in understanding rather than judgment.

A warm, dangerous hope unfurled in his chest.

This might actually work, he thought.

Of course, that was exactly when things started to go sideways.

On the second night of their visit, after a long day showing his parents the warehouse, the office, and the farmer’s market where he bought produce, they ended up at another restaurant. This one had live music, a small dance floor, older couples swaying together under dim lights.

Ry, emboldened by one glass of wine and Dawn’s teasing, pulled her up for a slow dance. His steps were clumsy, hers uncertain, but they moved together with a kind of easy, practiced affection that made Stephanie stare.

“Someday,” Dawn called over Ry’s shoulder, laughing, “you’ll see your dad dancing with a cane. Then you’ll really know we’re getting old.”

Stephanie’s throat tightened. She felt the brush of James’s sleeve as he shifted beside her, the weight of his attention on her profile.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“They’re… adorable,” she said, voice warm and aching at once. “That’s all.”

He looked at her for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

Later, while Ry and Dawn argued cheerfully about dessert, Dawn leaned toward Stephanie, eyes sparkling.

“Come with me to the restroom, dear,” she said. “These boys can manage to choose cake without us for five minutes.”

In the softly lit ladies’ room, Dawn washed her hands slowly, then checked her lipstick in the mirror. When she turned to Stephanie, her expression was gentler than it had been all evening.

“I know you’re helping him,” Dawn said quietly.

Stephanie’s heart lurched. “I—”

Dawn lifted one hand. “Relax. I’m not upset. I’ve known my son for thirty-five years. I know when he’s being completely transparent and when he’s… managing a situation.”

The phrasing was so precise Stephanie almost laughed.

“I also know what it looks like when someone cares about him,” Dawn added. “And you, my dear, care. You might not realize how much yet. But it’s there. Clear as day.”

Heat flooded Stephanie’s face. “I—James just asked me to pretend because he didn’t want you to worry. He didn’t want to lie, exactly, but he didn’t want you thinking he was alone, either.”

“I figured as much,” Dawn said. “It’s all right. Parents can tell when they’re being handled. Sometimes we even let it happen, if the intention is kind.”

She dried her hands, then held Stephanie’s gaze.

“I like you,” she said simply. “So does Ry. We’re not here to interrogate you or grade your résumé. We just want to see our son smile when he’s not looking at his phone. And we want to know that whatever happens, he has someone in his corner.”

Stephanie swallowed hard.

“I’m not… I don’t know how stable I am,” she admitted in a whisper. “I’ve never been good at staying. My life is… weird.”

“So is his,” Dawn said briskly. “You’ll either learn to steady each other, or you won’t. That’s life. But don’t you dare disappear on him without giving him a chance to prove himself.”

Stephanie blinked. “Is that… a threat?”

“A promise,” Dawn said, eyes twinkling. “You’d be surprised what a retired school janitor can do when she’s properly motivated.”

On their way back to the table, they passed the entrance. Just as they did, the door swung open and a familiar voice called James’s name.

Daniela.

James’s sort-of-ex-sort-of-nothing in particular. Perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect sense of timing.

She smiled like a woman who’d just walked into an episode of a show she knew had been cancelled but was still curious about the finale.

“James,” she said, lips curving. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Family dinner?”

Her gaze slid to Stephanie, then to Dawn, taking everything in with a single, razor-sharp sweep.

“Ah,” she added lightly. “So this must be the famous housekeeper.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Dawn laughed.

The sound was bright and delighted and maybe just a touch dangerous.

“Housekeeper?” she echoed. “That’s a new one. We thought she was our future daughter-in-law.”

Daniela blinked, thrown for the first time since James had known her.

“Excuse me?” she said.

Dawn’s smile never faltered. “In our family,” she said pleasantly, “we don’t look down on anyone who makes our lives better, whether they’re mopping floors or signing contracts. If my son is fool enough not to see what he has, that’s his problem, not hers. Good evening, dear.”

She took Stephanie’s arm and steered her back to the table, leaving Daniela standing in the doorway with her perfect jaw slightly slack.

James watched them return, brows raised. Dawn gave him a look that said, We’ll talk later.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of small talk and dessert and gentle teasing. When they got home, Ry went to bed early, tired from the day. Dawn retreated to the guest room with a book.

James and Stephanie ended up on the back porch, sitting side by side on the steps, watching Presto nose around the lawn.

“You didn’t have to defend me like that,” Stephanie said at last.

“Yes, I did,” he replied. “You shouldn’t have been dragged into my old… entanglements.”

“She’s pretty,” Stephanie said.

“She’s complicated,” he said. “And not what I want.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

Stephanie went very still.

“What do you want?” she asked.

You, he thought. You in my kitchen at seven a.m., you in my guest room sketching until midnight, you arguing with my mother about the best way to season green beans.

He didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he turned to her, heart beating so loudly he was sure she could hear it.

“I want this,” he said quietly. “Not the pretending. The real thing. You. Me. No act.”

Her breath caught.

“At first I just wanted to help,” he went on. “Then I wanted to keep the house from swallowing me alive. Then I saw your drawings. Then I saw my parents look at you like you were already part of us. Somewhere in all that, I forgot where the lines were supposed to be.”

She stared at him, eyes glossy in the low light.

“You’re my boss,” she said, voice trembling.

“I can find you another one,” he said. “Or we can figure out how to do this without ruining your life. I don’t have all the answers. For once. I just… know that when I picture next year, or the one after, and you’re not in it, it feels wrong.”

Silence. Presto flopped at their feet with a sigh.

“I’m messed up,” Stephanie whispered. “My family is a disaster. I don’t even know if my mother remembers my birthday. I start drawing portraits when I want to run away. I’m not one of those polished women you take to the Bahamas.”

“Good,” he said. “I sunburn easily.”

She let out a shaky laugh, then scrubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“You really want this?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

She inhaled, slow and deep, as if gathering herself.

“Come with me,” she said suddenly. “I want to show you something.”

She led him back to the cottage and flicked on the small lamp by the bed. The sketchbook lay on the table, but she didn’t reach for it. Instead, she opened the drawer beneath and pulled out a thicker, heavier pad. This one was full.

She handed it to him without a word.

He opened it.

Twenty-four portraits. All of him. More detailed than the ones he’d seen before. His face in shadow, in light, smiling, frowning, lost in thought, asleep on the couch after a long day. Each drawing captured a different mood, a different angle, a different piece of him.

“When I thought about leaving,” she said softly, “I drew you instead. Every time I told myself, ‘It’s just a job. It’s temporary. Don’t get attached,’ I’d look up and you’d be standing at the sink, making coffee, talking to Dustin with that serious face. And my hand just… moved.”

He turned the pages slowly, reverently.

“They’re beautiful,” he said.

“They’re terrifying,” she countered. “Because they mean I was lying to myself. I pretended to be your fake girlfriend for a week. But I’ve been falling for you for months.”

There it was.

Simple.

Devastating.

True.

He set the sketchbook down with care, stepped forward, and took her face in his hands.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’ve been falling too.”

The kiss, when it came, wasn’t cinematic. It was a little clumsy, a little hesitant, lips brushing and pulling back, then finding each other again with more certainty. But it felt right—like something that had been leaning toward this moment for a very long time.

Outside, the Oregon night was quiet. Inside the cottage, two people who’d started as strangers in a gas station parking lot finally let go of the stories that had kept them apart.

In the weeks that followed, nothing and everything changed.

They still argued over grocery lists. James still spent too many hours at the warehouse. Stephanie still walked Presto in the mornings, still sketched late at night, still talked to Dustin about delivery schedules when James forgot to answer his phone.

But sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night and found her curled against his side, breathing slow and even. Sometimes she looked up from her drawings and caught him staring, and instead of looking away, she smiled.

His parents went back to Washington with sunburned noses, stories about “that nice girl Stephanie,” and a certainty that their son was going to be okay. They didn’t ask when the wedding was. Not yet. Dawn just hugged Stephanie tight at the truck and whispered, “Don’t disappear. Or I will come find you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stephanie promised.

It was the first time in a long time she’d said those words and believed them.

Months later, on a warm afternoon when spring had finally shaken off winter’s claws, James came home to find the cottage door open, the smell of something baking drifting through the air.

Stephanie sat at the little table, sun spilling over her shoulders, pencil moving quickly across paper. Presto lay at her feet, blissfully asleep.

On the page, a new drawing was taking shape.

He recognized his parents’ faces first—Ry with his fishing hat, Dawn with her cardigan. Beside them: Stephanie herself, laughing, head tipped back. Between them all, a small, scribbled shape of a dog with floppy ears.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching.

“What are you working on?” he asked at last.

She looked up, startled, then turned the pad so he could see.

“Us,” she said. “I thought maybe it’s time I stopped drawing you like some unreachable thing and started drawing the life we’re actually building.”

He stepped inside, bent down, and kissed the top of her head.

“I like that plan,” he said.

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” she murmured.

“Looks like it,” he replied. “From a gas station to this.”

“Very American of us,” she said dryly. “Stray girl, small-town boy, big frozen-food dreams.”

“Hey,” he protested. “Medium frozen-food dreams.”

She laughed, bright and full, and that sound—more than the house, more than the business, more than anything he’d bought or built—felt like success.

Later, when they finally did tell his parents the truth—that the relationship they’d faked for their benefit had somehow, stubbornly, become real, and that a small, meaningful ceremony was on the distant horizon—Dawn only nodded, eyes shining.

“I knew,” she said simply. “Sometimes love starts with an act. The important part is that it doesn’t stay one.”

Ry clapped James on the back hard enough to make him cough.

“You picked well, son,” he said. “Took you long enough.”

On evenings when the sun dipped low over the pines and the wind carried the faint scent of grilling from neighboring yards, James and Stephanie would sit on the porch with Presto between them, watching the light fade.

They talked about little things—paint colors, recipes, the best way to organize the pantry. They talked about big things—future trips, her art, his business, the possibility of teaching kids someday that you didn’t have to choose between practical and passionate, that sometimes the two could live under the same roof.

Every now and then, Stephanie would disappear into the cottage and return with another drawing, another page from the story she was quietly chronicling in graphite and charcoal.

Once, she showed him a four-panel piece.

In the first panel, a gas station under buzzing neon. A tired man near a truck. A girl with a dog in her arms.

In the second, a cottage under trees, light in the window.

In the third, a family at a restaurant table, laughing.

In the fourth, two figures on a porch, side by side, dog curled at their feet, the suggestion of a future sketched in faint, hopeful lines.

“It’s our tabloid version,” she said. “Runaway girl rescued by mysterious businessman. Love, scandal, frozen peas.”

“Catchy,” he said. “Might get good views.”

She poked him in the ribs. “Don’t you dare turn this into a marketing campaign.”

He caught her hand, threaded his fingers through hers.

“Too late,” he said softly. “I already did. Just for my own heart.”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away.

And somewhere between the highway and the home they’d made, between fear and trust, between fake and real, their story settled into place.

Not perfect.

Not glamorous.

Just theirs.

In a one-story cottage outside Portland, Oregon, in the United States of endless highways and second chances, a woman who once thought she was easy to leave and a man who once thought he was easier to admire than to love built a life out of coffee cups and sketchbooks, warehouse schedules and dog walks, gas station hot dogs and Sunday dinners.

It wasn’t the life either of them had been told to expect.

It was better.