I showed up at my godfather’s house with two bags and a semester that had already ended.
The crash was weeks old. The funeral was done. No dorm. No lease. Cole Hale had paid for the coffins and the flights and the quiet after. He was the emergency name on every form. I hated that this address was the only one that still made sense.
He opened the door in a black shirt like he had been standing there since the rideshare pinged.
“Rory.”
“Hi.”
The house was wood and clock-quiet. He took one bag. I kept the smaller one against my hip because the toy was in it, wrapped in a hoodie like cloth could make it decent.
“Spare room is upstairs. Bathroom’s attached. You eat what I cook or you say so. You don’t disappear into campus hours in a house that isn’t a dorm.”
He went up. I followed.
The
