The rain was hitting the stained-glass window in the hallway when I got home from my twelve-hour shift at the clinic.

My scrubs smelled like antiseptic and cold rain.

I just wanted to climb into the cherry-wood bed my grandmother had left me.

It was the only bed I had ever felt safe in, in the only house I had ever truly owned.

My grandmother left me this place.

Every corner of it held her memory, from the cedar smell of the wardrobes to the scratch on the stairs.

Rylan had moved in three years ago, and slowly, he had started sharing it with everyone but me.

I walked into the bedroom, pulling off my damp hairband.

The lamp on the nightstand was cast in a low, amber glow.

There was a woman sleeping under my handmade quilt.

Her dark hair was spread across my linen pillowcase, the one with the hand-stitched lace edges.

She was snoring softly, her shoes piled messily beside my antique dresser.

I stood frozen by the wardrobe, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I did not know this woman.

I walked back down the stairs, my socks quiet on the creaking pine floorboards.

Rylan was in the kitchen, pouring milk into a mug.

He smiled when he saw me, his face smooth and completely relaxed.

“Hey, babe. You’re home early,” he said.

“Who is in our bed, Rylan?” I asked.

My voice was too quiet, trembling at the edges.

Rylan took a slow sip of his warm milk.

“Oh, that’s Dani. She’s a friend of Marcus from the gym.”

“I don’t know Marcus from the gym,” I said. “And I don’t know Dani.”

“Her apartment flooded, Calla,” he said, putting his mug down on the counter.

He reached out to touch my shoulder, but I stepped back.

“She had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t just let her sleep in her car.”

“So you gave her our bed?” I asked.

“The guest room mattress is too firm for her back,” he said, his voice dripping with easy pity.

“You have to have some compassion, Calla. This is what we do. We help people.”