He fumbles to pull his keys from his pocket and unlock the latch. The interior is a bit gloomy and smells damp, but the dark walnut floors and counters are immaculate. Having grown up with floors this exact shade, I appreciate how difficult it is to keep them clean. There doesn’t appear to be even a speck of dust on the bookshelves framing the fireplace or on the coffee table. The living and dining room are one with the kitchen, the knobs on the ivory drawers and cabinets shaped like acorns.

I press my thumb against the tiny bumps on the acorn’s cap. “I love these.”

Trevor comes up behind me, bringing along the soft scent of ink and leather, as if he himself has been wrapped inside a book. “They’re my favorite part of the kitchen. My grandmother picked them out when my grandfather built this place.”

Trevor trails a finger along a pull, his nail tapping the little stem at the top. “If the whole house burned to the ground, and I could only save one thing, it would be one of these.”

A tingle starts at my feet, traveling up my legs, the sensation familiar and unwelcome. Even knowing what’s going to happen next, I’m still not prepared for the way my chest constricts, tightening, hardening, as if a boulder has been dropped on my sternum.

It’s only a figure of speech. Stop being dramatic.

I rub idly at my chest, escaping from the kitchen into the lone bedroom on this level, focusing on what is in front of me, not the flashes of painful memories flaring in my traitorous mind.

A four-poster bed. A matching nightstand. A short chest of drawers.

Normal. Safe. Three pieces of furniture stuffed into a small room the way the air feels stuffed into my lungs. I slip into the adjoining bathing room to grip the edge of the claw-foot tub and try to get my breathing under control.

The air smells not of smoke, but of lavender and chamomile from the small bowl of potpourri sitting on the edge of the sink.

I’m fine.

Everything is fine.

I’m safe. Whole. Alive.

Trevor waits in the living room, his soft smile giving no indication that he noticed my brief panic spiral. When he offers to show me the upstairs, I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.

At the top of the staircase wait two more bedrooms and another bathing room, twice as large as the one downstairs, with an arched window that opens out toward the stream. By the time we return to the living area, the tightness in my chest is no more than a terrible memory.

Trevor shifts his weight from one foot to the other as his fingers tap against his thighs. “Do you…” He clears his throat. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect.” This is the sort of home I’ve always imagined myself in.