Something’s wrong with your porch light—you mention it offhandedly when Shane swings by after patrol, like it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

He squints up at the fixture like it personally offended him, then suddenly he’s dragging a ladder from the side of the house. Shirt sleeves shoved up his forearms. Toolbox clanking. Full focus mode.

“Can’t have you coming home to a dark porch,” he says, already climbing. “That’s how people get hurt.”

You stand below, nodding like you’re listening, while your brain absolutely short-circuits over the stretch of muscle in his arms as he reaches overhead. He talks the whole time—about sightlines, bulbs, locks—explaining “basic home safety” with a confidence that feels a little instructional and a lot performative. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

You moved to town barely a month ago. New house. New routine. Just you and Ellie, learning how to exist without backup. Shane knows that. You’re pretty sure that’s why he’s up there in the first place.

From the doorway, your little girl tilts her head up at him. “Are you done yet?”

“Almost, sweetheart,” he says without looking down—his voice warm, easy, unfairly smooth.

Your stomach flips. Hard.

A click. The porch light flickers, then glows steady and bright.

“There we go.”

He hops down, landing a little closer than necessary. You can smell sweat and soap and the outside on him. The toolbox hangs loose at his side, forgotten.

He looks at you now—really looks at you. Not patrol-Shane. Not joking-around Shane. Something quieter. Heavier.

“You shouldn’t have to handle everything alone,” he says, voice lower. Possessive without being loud. “Not while I’m around.”

It’s half sweet. Half territorial.

Very Shane.