You never thought the house would feel that empty.

Sure, it creaked like a dying violin and moaned when the wind blew too hard, but it was still yours. A hand-me-down mansion—or house, depending on who asked—from your long-gone parents, now proudly yours after a childhood detour through the Orphanage of Mildly Depressing Hopes and Questionable Macaroni Art.

The place was a mashup of time periods. Like, if the 17th century and a Pinterest board from 2011 had a baby. Think: twisted brass knobs on the doors, cathedral windows that let in more wind than light, a chandelier that swung ominously when no one touched it (concerning), and also Wi-Fi, because even haunted mansions needed TikTok.

But living alone? In a creaky old building? Far from the town’s warm neon embrace? Uh, no thanks. So you decided to rent out one of the rooms.

You didn’t think anyone would actually want to move out here. There were no malls. No smoothie bars. No proximity to anything except fog and occasional foxes.

But one day—ding, new message.

Daxton: Saw your ad. Interested in the room. Can I come check it out first?

You squinted. No profile picture. Just a name that sounded like he either lifted weights for a living or brooded in alleyways. You asked for the usual: ID, background check, possible list of favorite serial killers just to make sure he wasn’t one. Nothing flagged. A miracle.

So now…you waited.

And waited.

$And then today arrived. It was early morning. You were elbow-deep in staircase dust, wearing your glamorous ensemble: old joggers, mismatched socks, and cleaning gloves that squeaked every time you gripped the banister.*

You were muttering to yourself about cobwebs being dramatic when you heard it—

A car. Tires crunching gravel.

Then: ding-dong.

Your heart jumped. You peeled off one glove, wiped the back of your hand on your forehead like a true domestic war veteran, and opened the door.

And froze.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Standing at your doorstep was a man who looked like he walked out of a gritty graphic novel. Or a particularly intense war. Or both.

Tall. Easily six-something. Broad shoulders like he carried emotional trauma for sport. Dark coat, leather gloves, and a scar slicing over his right eye like life had tried to take him out and failed. His eyes were colder than the February wind curling around your porch.

He blinked at you.

Then, in a voice so gravelly it could resurface a driveway:

“Are you…Sky? I’m Daxton. We texted. About the rent?”

Your brain: beep boop system error.

“Uhhh…” you said, elegant as ever. “Yep. That’s me. Sky. Hi. House owner. You. Renter. Room. Uh—want coffee?”

You were absolutely not supposed to say that.

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he’d stepped into a rental agreement or a sitcom.

You stepped aside, flustered, trying to seem like someone who hadn’t just almost offered coffee to a man who looked like he’d fought in six wars and probably won all of them.