“I’m coming in, so please stay behind the curtain.” I waited a moment then entered. Steam already filled the room. “I have some clothes for you. Better stuff for looking at a sink than what I bought yesterday.” I realized then that I’d never actually asked him if he would help.

“Clay, I’m so sorry,” I apologized sincerely. “I’m being rude and making assumptions. Will you look at the sink? Please?” I asked using my syrupy voice.

He splashed me over the top of the curtain...again.

“Ok, ok. I’ll just leave the stuff here on the floor. If something doesn’t fit or you don’t like it, leave the tags on it, and we’ll take it back. I guessed on the shoes. Some of the stuff isn’t for now, but I figured you could try it on.” I realized I was rambling at the same time I remembered the missing buttons on the shirt. I closed my mouth and quickly grabbed the flannel from the pile.

The water turned off just then, and I rushed from the bathroom.

In my room, I pulled out my travel sewing kit and got to work moving buttons around. The two spares on the inside seam remained intact. With those and a close match I found in the sewing kit, I solved the missing button problem.

While I stitched, I listened for Clay to leave the bathroom. By the time I finished, I still hadn’t heard anything. I set the repaired shirt aside and went to look for him.

I found him in the kitchen. He already had his head bent over the faucet. The jeans hung loosely from his hips. The white shirt clung lightly to his back, outlining the curve of each muscle and his broad, firm shoulders. I blinked twice, swallowed hard, and caught myself a moment before I tried clearing my throat to swallow again. The clothes I’d picked out looked good. A little too good. And looking at him in them did funny things to my stomach.

Thankfully, he didn’t look up and notice my gawking. I pulled myself together and moved to the refrigerator. Opening it, I studied the contents then grabbed what I needed to make him a big breakfast: eggs, bacon, potatoes, and yes, orange juice...from concentrate. I set everything on the table.

When first staying with Sam, he’d amazed me with the amount of food he’d consumed on a daily basis. He’d explained that the werewolf’s metabolism ran a bit higher than the average person's did. So, I planned to make enough breakfast for three and only serve myself one portion, leaving the rest for Clay.

While he ran down to the basement, I washed the potatoes under the pathetic trickle of water. When he came back, I noticed he still had bare feet.

“The shoes didn’t fit?” I moved to the table to peel the potatoes and stay out of his way.

He shrugged in response. I tried to guess what that might mean.

“So they fit, but you didn’t want to wear them?”

No response. He continued to tinker with the sink. I started to cut the potatoes.

“Did you like them, or should we bring them back? I wasn’t sure what style you liked. There were several different colors. They’re cheap shoes, but I figured it was better than walking around barefoot in the snow. That’s got to be cold even for you.”

Halfway through my one-sided conversation, he’d turned to look at me. I knew I’d rambled a little...again. Then I realized I’d just referred to him still living here in winter. I had really grown used to having him around. Kind of. I hoped he wasn’t looking at me because of that.

“I just don’t want you to think you have to keep them if you don’t like them. It won’t hurt my feelings if we take them back. Just wear the flip flops for now, and you can come in with me next time and pick out what you like.” The plain, grey and blue running shoes were muted enough that I’d thought they’d look okay with whatever he wore in the future. I hadn’t given the style more thought than that.

I got up from the table and put some butter in the pan on the stove. When I turned to get the diced potatoes, he was sitting on a chair at the table. He already had his socks on and was bent forward to slide his feet into the shoes.

“No, no, no, Clay.” I hurried over, reached out, and almost touched his back before I caught myself and pulled my hand away. “I wasn’t saying you had to wear them.” He continued to tie the shoes. “It’s okay to bring them back if you don’t like them.”

When he finished tying, he stood and looked down at his feet. I could see him wiggle his toes through the canvas and mesh tops. The length seemed to fit well enough. The loose, untied lacing told me they ran a little snug in the width. He moved past me and walked to the sink then back to try out the shoes. What little I could see of his expression appeared relaxed, as did his stride.

“You like shoes but you don’t wear them much, do you?”

He answered with his typical passive shrug as he moved back to the sink.

The sizzle of the potatoes called my attention, and I got another pan out to start the bacon. He used the tools he’d brought up from the basement to try to fix the sink while I cooked. The sound of water running at full pressure heralded breakfast.

“Good to have a handyman,” I commented setting our plates on the table.

Clay cleaned up the tools and disappeared downstairs. I wondered if he would come back in his fur and eyed the plate I’d set on the table for him. We had eaten together before but always with him in his fur. Before I could stop it, an image of him trying to use a fork for the first time popped into my head. I quickly squashed the picture and sat down to wait for him in whatever form he chose. I would not underestimate him again. Nor would I thoughtlessly remark on his table manners no matter how poor they might be.

The soft tread on the stairs warned me that he remained a man. He sat across from me and dug in. He didn’t eat like Clay-the-dog or use his hands. Instead, he had perfectly normal table manners. Though his beard shredded it, he even used his paper napkin in an effort to keep himself neat.

“What are the chances of trimming that beard?”

He used his napkin while he finished chewing and then flashed me a full view of his teeth. His canines remained completely elongated as if he still wore his fur. I froze briefly with my fork suspended midair. Then I gave myself a mental shake. The view scared me, but I reminded myself of Sam’s words. I had nothing to fear.

“Do they stay like that all the time?”

He didn’t answer but continued to eat, slowly clearing his plate. I waited patiently, hoping he’d give me some type of response. This was the second occasion we’d spent time together without his fur since he’d arrived. I knew so little about him and wondered if this was a sign he was ready to start talking to me.

When he finished, he moved to the sink and ran the water. I wasn’t ready to give up. I followed him, leaned against the counter, and studied the little bit of his face I could see.

“Is this something you don’t want to talk about?”

He shrugged. Okay, not a closed topic...and apparently he wasn’t yet ready to speak.

“Is it something I need to guess or can you explain it to me?” I felt like I was playing twenty questions.

He turned to consider me for a moment then went back to washing his plate and fork. Taking the hint, I cleaned up my place while he moved to wipe the stove. I washed and dried my plate and tried to figure out what to ask next. Obviously only yes and no questions even though he hadn’t answered when I asked whether his teeth stayed like that all the time. Perhaps asking about them embarrassed him.

When he returned to the sink, I briefly thought of letting the subject drop, but then he dropped the washcloth into the sink and turned to me. He crossed his arms, leaned against the counter, and watched me. Not just looking at me, but studying me...all of me...as if he weighed a decision. I couldn’t help but return his stare.