Shane thought we should get some sleep before starting out for Victoria. “It doesn’t make sense to leave now,” he said, practical as ever. “It’s only two and a half hours. We’d get there in the middle of the night and not be able to do anything anyway.”
He was right, of course. The logical part of my brain agreed with him. But logic doesn’t stand much of a chance against the kind of worry that grows teeth. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional car passing on the street below. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flames licking across the front porch of the Welcome House, imagined the roof collapsing inward, imagined the sound of crackling wood and sirens too late to matter.
Mr. Anderson had promised to call if he learned more, but my phone stayed stubbornly silent. I kept glancing at it anyway, as if staring hard enough might make it light up. When sleep finally came, it was shallow and twisted. Dreams full of smoke and running feet filled my sleeping thoughts, and a voice I couldn’t reach called my name.
At four-thirty, Shane gave up on rest entirely. “Come on,” he said softly, tugging the comforter from me. “Let’s just go. We’ll feel better moving.”
He loaded our last bag into the truck, his movements quiet and deliberate. The predawn air was thick with humidity; the kind that clung to your skin and made everything smell faintly of rain and asphalt. The apartment building was still, the world half asleep. As he started the engine, the headlights cut through the dark, and we slipped onto the empty road heading south.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The sky began to pale along the horizon as we hit 130, the first hints of dawn softening the edges of the highway. My stomach twisted with each passing mile. The closer we got, the more vivid the pictures in my mind became, charred beams, blackened windows, the Welcome House reduced to a hollow shell.
Shane’s hand rested on the gearshift, tapping a steady rhythm, the only sign he was anxious too. I tried to swallow the lump rising in my throat, but it caught there anyway. My lip began to tremble.
“Stop it.”
His voice was sharp, too loud for the small cab. It cut through my spiral like a slap.
I blinked, startled.
He kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight. “You’re working yourself up, Tay. Don’t do that. We’ll see what’s happened, and we’ll deal with it. Whatever it is.”
His tone softened, the edge giving way to something steadier. “I know you’ve had a hell of a year. More than anyone deserves. But we’ve gotten through everything else. Together. This won’t be any different.”
I nodded, though my throat felt tight.
He glanced at me briefly, his expression easing. “We’re a team, right?”
“Right,” I managed.
“Then lean on me if you need to,” he said quietly. “The same way I’ve leaned on you when I thought I couldn’t handle things. You’re stronger than you think, but together…” He smiled faintly. “Together. Only God is stronger.”
The words settled over me like a blanket, warm, grounding. I nodded again. “I know. I’m just… rattled. Not thinking straight.”
Shane reached over, his hand finding mine, fingers wrapping around them with easy familiarity. “I know, babe.”
He gave my hand a squeeze, then shifted slightly and without warning slid his other hand under my chin, tilting my face toward him.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snapped, startled.
He grinned, unbothered. “Relax. It’s in self-driving mode.”
My eyes darted to the steering wheel, which was making small, precise corrections all on its own as the truck hummed down the highway at seventy miles an hour.
“I didn’t know it could do that,” I said, staring in disbelief.
“I’ve tested it a few times,” he said proudly. “Wanted to surprise you.”
I let out a shaky breath, somewhere between laughter and exasperation. “You are such an asshole.”
“Yep,” he said easily, flashing that boyish grin that always managed to undo me. “But I’m your asshole, and you’re stuck with me.”
I rolled my eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Lucky me.”
“Damn right,” he said, giving my hand one more squeeze before putting it back on the console.
The miles slipped by. The sun finally broke the horizon somewhere near Lockhart, washing the highway in gold. My heart still ached, but Shane’s steadiness, his humor, even in the middle of fear, kept me tethered.
By the time we reached the outskirts of Victoria, the morning had fully bloomed, bright, cloudless, uncomfortably beautiful. The kind of day that should have felt calm and ordinary. But my stomach twisted tighter with every mile.
As we crossed into town, the faint tang of smoke drifted through the air. It was old smoke, cold, not the thick choking kind from a live blaze, but the kind that carried that acrid edge that seeps into everything it touches. Shane turned down the radio without a word.
We wound through familiar streets, each corner pulling me deeper into memory. The closer we got to the house, the more I felt the weight of what might be waiting.
Then we turned onto the street.
A barricade stood across the end of the block, bright yellow tape fluttering in the breeze. A single police cruiser idled nearby, and behind it, the Welcome House stood, still standing, but wounded. The once-white siding was streaked with soot, the roofline blackened along the back. The tall pecan tree out front looked as if it had been dusted with gray ash.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Shane pulled the truck over, killed the engine, and rested his hand on my arm. “Take a second,” he said quietly.
But I was already fumbling with the door handle. My legs felt unsteady as I stepped out, my boots crunching over bits of charred wood and broken glass scattered across the edge of the lawn.
The air smelled of wet ash and chemical burn. Someone had doused everything with water and foam; small puddles still shimmered in the ruts where the fire hoses had lain.
Mr. Anderson was there, standing near the walkway, his tie loosened and his jacket draped over one arm. He looked older than I remembered, his face drawn tight with the kind of exhaustion that comes from too many phone calls and too little sleep. When he saw us, he started forward.
“Taylor, Shane. It’s good to see you. I’m trying to get some more answers.”
“What happened?” I asked, my voice rough, my balance shaky even with my walker. “How bad is it?” I looked past him at the house. The back section sagged, blackened beams exposed through what had once been the kitchen wall. The smell of burned wood hit me like a memory I didn’t want.
Mr. Anderson hesitated, then sighed. “It was Roger.”
The name alone felt like a spark in dry tinder. “Roger?”
He nodded. “He, well.” He looked toward the house. “We told them yesterday that they would no longer be in charge of the house when the ownership changed. According to Gertrude, he tried to set the place alight intentionally; she said that he took a can of chainsaw fuel to start the fire. Something went wrong; she said the porch exploded and he was thrown into the yard. He was badly burned. The police think that he struck his head on one of the trees. The paramedics couldn’t revive him.”
My throat closed. I pressed a hand to my mouth.
“Gertrude’s clothing caught fire. They flew her to the burn unit in San Antonio last night.”
For a long moment, the world seemed to narrow to the faint hiss of cooling embers. The sound of my own heartbeat filled my ears.
Shane stepped closer, his hand finding the small of my back. I didn’t realize how badly I was shaking until I felt his steady palm against me.
“They got here fast,” Mr. Anderson continued, glancing toward the house. “The fire department managed to contain it before it took the whole structure. It’s just the porch and the exterior of the back that’s completely ruined. The bones of the house are still sound, but,” he paused, “the interior is heavily smoke-damaged. It’s going to take a lot of work to bring it back.”
I stared at the blackened windows, the blackened eaves, the charred remnants that were strewn across the yard. My chest tightened. “She gave me this house,” I whispered. “She trusted me to take care of it.”
Mr. Anderson stepped forward, his voice gentle. “And you still can, Taylor. It’s not gone. It’s hurt, yes, but not gone. Insurance will cover a good portion; we upped the coverage last year to keep up with the value, and we’ll make sure restoration specialists handle what’s left. It can be repaired. If you want to leave the ownership with the trust, we can handle everything for you. I can write it up so you can transfer the deed at any time.”
The words washed over me, practical and kind, but all I could see was the ghost of the home I remembered, the sunlit kitchen, the creak in the floorboard by the stairs, the warmth that had always seemed to hum through the walls.
Shane turned me toward him, his hands firm on my shoulders. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
I did, barely.
“We’ll fix it,” he said. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever it takes, we’ll do it. Let’s think about what Mr. Anderson is saying. It might be a good idea to let him and his team handle things for you.”
“For us,” I said.
I saw Shane smile. “For us.”
Something in his voice, steady, certain, finally broke through the fog. I nodded, though my eyes still burned.
Behind us, the wind shifted direction, carrying another breath of ash-laden air. The house loomed silent, scarred but still standing, a survivor, like the rest of us. And as I stood there, watching smoke curl faintly from the blackened eaves, I realized that maybe that was enough for now: that it had survived.
“Hey, John.”
All three of us turned to see two men walking toward us. I immediately recognized one of them as one of Mr. Anderson’s relatives, so I assumed it was his brother. Another man in a police jacket was right behind them.
Mr. Anderson spoke up. “This is my brother Stuart and his friend Kris.”
We all nodded, said hello, shook hands and turned, as if we were synchronous dancers, toward the police officer.
“Anything new?” John Anderson asked.
“Well, one of the neighbors heard Mrs. Peterson’s screaming at her husband to stop. She was on her back porch, and she saw Mr. Peterson go up the steps. Mrs. Peterson kept repeating not to do it, and then there was the explosion. She called it in right away. That’s why everyone got here so fast.”
“So Gretchen had a drop of decency in her soul,” I said.
Everyone was quiet.
“I wish she hadn’t been hurt,” I said as tears filled my eyes again.
The officer spoke up. “I’m afraid she died this morning. Her injuries were too severe.”
Shane pulled me to him.
I was groggy walking into our little apartment on the edge of campus. I’d slept almost the entire way home thanks to some Xanax that one of Mr. Anderson’s physician friends prescribed for me. Shane got me to our bed, and I fell back asleep almost immediately.
The start of the fall semester came more quickly than either of us expected. Two weeks after returning from Victoria, life settled into a new kind of rhythm, steady, busy, and mostly uneventful. It was the kind of monotony that, after everything we’d been through, felt almost like a gift.
Shane had stacked his schedule to the brim, early morning classes three days a week, labs in the afternoons, and volunteer tutoring one evening each week. I’d done something similar, determined to finish by spring. Most mornings began in the same way: the alarm buzzing at six-thirty, the faint blue light creeping through the blinds, and the sound of Shane muttering half-awake curses as he fumbled for the snooze button.
Our little apartment had its own soundtrack, the low hum of the refrigerator, the hiss of the shower, the scrape of a chair against tile. We moved around each other in a sleepy, well-practiced dance: he brewed the coffee; I toasted the bread; we both fought over the bathroom sink at least twice a week.
“Your toothbrush is always in the way,” he’d grumble, shoving it gently aside to rinse his razor.
“And you leave stubble clippings in the sink,” I’d counter, balancing on my better leg as I reached for my hairbrush.
“Adds texture,” he’d say, smirking, and I’d swat him with the towel.
After breakfast, usually cereal or whatever we remembered to buy the last time we’d gone to the grocery store. We’d head out together, juggling backpacks, coffee mugs, and whatever paperwork needed signing. Shane dropped me off by the student center before heading to his own classes across campus.
The days blurred together: long lectures, crowded hallways, late-afternoon caffeine refuels. I split my time between the classroom and my projects, trying to keep pace with the workload while my body continued its slow climb back to normal.
I still used the walker, mostly out of habit. The doctors said I didn’t strictly need it anymore, but it gave me balance, and, if I was honest, a little confidence. Some days, I’d leave it leaning against a desk or a bench just to test myself, taking a few steps unaided before the ache in my hip reminded me I wasn’t fully there yet.
Evenings were quieter. Shane and I would meet back at the apartment sometime around six. He’d toss his backpack on the couch, kick off his shoes, and groan dramatically as he stretched.
“College is overrated,” he’d say, every single day.
“And yet you keep going back,” I’d reply, handing him a bottle of water or sliding his notes across the table.
We’d cook simple meals, grilled cheese and tomato soup, pasta with too much garlic, frozen pizza on Fridays. Afterward came dishes, laundry, and a shared truce about who got to control the TV remote. Some nights we worked side by side at the table, laptops open, the quiet tap of keys filling the room. Other nights, we’d sit on the balcony with beers, saying little, just watching the city lights flicker below.
Time moved like that, slow, predictable, gentle.
As my birthday crept closer, I began testing my limits in secret. At first, just a few steps between the bedroom and the kitchen. Then the entire hallway. Then a full circuit around the apartment while Shane was out. My muscles still protested, but each time, the ache felt more like progress than pain.
A week before my birthday, I decided it was time.
Shane had arrived from class with an announcement that he needed a shower. He’d met with one of his professors and had an idea for the independent study class he’d be taking in the spring. He gave me a kiss and headed into the bathroom. I waited until I saw steam curling under the bathroom door and the faint sound of music spilling from his phone speaker. I could hear him humming a low, tuneless sound that always made me smile. I stood for a moment in the bedroom, one hand resting on the walker where it stood by the nightstand. Then I let go.
My legs trembled as I took the first few steps, barefoot against the cool floor. The sound of the shower masked the uneven rhythm of my footsteps. By the time I reached the doorway, my pulse was hammering, not from exertion, but from the quiet thrill of it.
Through the fogged glass, Shane moved under the spray, his outline blurred by steam. Water glistened along his shoulders, trailing down the curve of his back. I leaned against the door frame, just watching him. His body was almost as beautiful as he was. Gratitude and amazement filled me; I stood, a little disbelieving at how ordinary and extraordinary the moment felt.
Then he turned.
His eyes caught mine through the haze, and for a second he looked confused, just a flicker, like his brain hadn’t caught up with what he was seeing. Then his gaze dropped, noting the empty space beside me. No walker. Just me.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Well, look at you,” he said, voice soft but full of wonder.
I grinned back, breathless. “Surprise.”
He reached to shut off the water, pushing the glass door open with one hand.
“Leave it on,” I told him.
Steam rolled into the room. “You’ve been holding out on me,” he said, stepping toward me, dripping and grinning like a fool.
“Maybe,” I said as I removed my clothing. “Had to make sure I could make it all the way before showing off.”
He shook his head, water spraying from his hair. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
I shrugged, trying to keep my composure even as my eyes stung. “Just stubborn.”
“Same thing,” he said, and pulled me into a damp, laughing hug that smelled faintly of soap and attraction.
I directed him back under that spray and pushed my body against his.
“Oh, Tay, I’ve missed this.”
“I’m sorry, Shane. I’ve been neglecting you.” I kissed him.
“No apologies; you had to take care of yourself and get better.”
“You’re so giving,” I told him. I could feel him get harder. I eased myself down and kissed the head of his penis before wrapping my tongue around it. A new urge suddenly filled me as his dick jerked up. I pushed and turned him. I ran my tongue against his ass cheek before spreading them apart with my hands. His hairy hole winked at me and then the muscle of his sphincter quivered. I buried my nose in the space and moved the tip of my tongue against him. The audible moan told me that he had enjoyed it.
Water cascaded down his back and across my nose as I thrust my tongue more tightly against this trembling doughnut. The more he moaned, the more frenzied my movements became until he grunted an “Oh, fuck” and his hips thrust away from me several times.
Shane turned to face me. Cum dribbled from his still rigid cock. He reached his hands down, and in the way a dancer handles his partner, he pulled me to my feet. His breathing was hard and rapid. “You made me come,” he said.
“I know,” I smiled. “That wasn’t my intention, but I’m not disappointed by it.”
He wrapped me tightly in his arms and kissed me. “Tongue fucked in the afternoon. What will the neighbors think?”
“That I love you with my whole being.”
Epilogue
The years that followed passed in a kind of gentle rhythm, steady, full, and blessed with the kind of grace that only comes after hardship.
Shane and I graduated on time that spring, both of us crossing the stage in our caps and gowns, beaming like fools. It was a milestone neither of us took for granted. After everything, the fire, the surgeries, the sleepless nights, it felt like we were stepping into sunlight again.
A month later, we packed up the apartment and moved to Round Rock. The company that had hosted my internship offered Shane a position as, Shane in the design division, and me in project coordination. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was honest and fulfilling, and we were proud to do it together. We found a small house in a quiet neighborhood with crepe myrtles along the street and a back porch just big enough for two chairs and morning coffee.
Life began to fill itself in.
Sharon and Beau stayed close, and when Sharon called one afternoon with the news that the second insemination had taken, we both cried with her. Seven months later, the twins arrived, Aaron first, then Angela, tiny, perfect, and full of life. They grew quickly, both walking and talking earlier than expected, and when they potty-trained before turning two, Sharon declared them prodigies. No one argued; Shane and I knew they were geniuses from the moment they called me “Da;” although Shane still thinks they said it to him.
Down in Victoria, Welcome House rose from the ashes. The restoration took more than a year, but when it was finished, it gleamed like something out of a memory, white columns, wide porches, the kind of home that seemed to breathe history. Mr. Anderson guided every step of the process, making sure that the house’s character remained intact even as new life filled its walls. When the state awarded it an historical marker the following spring, we stood on the front lawn, hands clasped, and felt my grandmother’s presence in the wind.
The trust had grown under careful management, purchasing the bed and breakfast from the Peterson estate and reopening it under the same name that had graced the Welcome House for generations. The income from both properties now funded college accounts for the twins and, someday, perhaps others who would join our ever-widening family.
Shane and I still worked long hours, but the balance came easier now. Our evenings were filled with laughter, shared dinners, and quiet prayers. Sometimes we’d drive down to Victoria just to sit on the porch swing of Welcome House, the cicadas singing around us, and talk about how far we’d come.
There were moments of reflection, about pain, loss, and what it meant to start over, but more often, there was gratitude. Gratitude for love that had been tested and strengthened, for a home that had been rebuilt, and for a God who had never stopped guiding us forward.
We’d both changed, of course. Time has a way of smoothing out the sharp edges, of teaching you what really matters. And as we stood in the yard one evening watching the sun slip below the horizon, Shane’s hand brushed mine, and he smiled in that quiet, knowing way of his.
“Looks like we made it,” he said.
I nodded, the light catching the new brass plaque on the fence post, Welcome House, Established 1894.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “And the best part is, we’re still just getting started.”
The future stretched out before us, bright, wide open, and filled with promise. And in that golden light, surrounded by laughter, love, and the steady rhythm of grace, we knew: God had blessed us beyond measure.
Each day was a gift, and we intended to live it fully, together.
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