“Isn’t this trespassing?” I ask in a hushed tone.

He laughs. “I’m a professional trespasser, Piper. It’s what I do. Don’t worry about it. No one is around.”

True enough.

We follow the cracked driveway to a stone walkway that takes us to the backyard, which is surrounded by woods. There’re no other houses for as far as I can see, except for the house to the left, which is almost a quarter mile away. A four-season porch is off the back of the house, with long-forgotten plants and a hopefully empty birdcage visible hanging in the window. In its time, I’m sure the porch must have been a beautiful place to sip tea and read.

“How sad such a beautiful house has been let go like this,” I say.

“It happens a lot. Once a home, now a bunch of empty rooms with nothing but memories.”

“I wish we could go inside. I’d love to see all the rooms and the decor and what they left behind.”

“We can’t go inside. But we can go in there.”

Puzzled, I follow his gaze to a small toolshed in the far corner of the yard.

I blink at the dilapidated building. “In there?”

“Yeah. Come on.” He whistles for Acorn, who has wandered off into the weeds. The dog perks up his ears and trots over to follow us.

I worry about ticks and snakes as we walk through the high grass, but Evan seems oblivious to those concerns. When we reach the shed, he lifts the rusted metal latch and swings the wooden door open with a creak. I hold his hand and stay behind him. As he goes inside, he pulls me in with him.

Even though the sun is starting to set, there’s still enough light for us to see our surroundings, although there’s not much to see. A few old yard tools hang on one wall, and some old buckets and paint cans are piled in the corner. The wooden floor is dusty beneath our feet, and cobwebs lace random places over the walls and in the corners of the small window. I’m pretty sure we’re standing in bug central, and I’m petrified of spiders or any other creepy crawly.

I grip his hand tighter and wonder why on earth he wanted to come in here. There’s nothing of value or use at all.

“It’s starting to get dark outside,” I hint, but he continues to look around, clicking his piercing as he does so.

“I have a lantern,” he says absently, obviously forgetting his bag is back in my car.

“Are you looking for something?”

“No. I’m looking for somewhere.”

I scrunch my eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”

“I think I’m going to stay here.”

His answer only heightens the state of confusion I’m already in.

“Stay here?” I repeat. “As in live here?”

“I don’t live anywhere, Piper. But I could sleep here instead of under the bridge. It’ll keep me out of the rain and wind.”

I blink, overwhelmed with the wave of facts that keep getting buried under the feelings I have for him. He’s homeless. And he’s honestly serious about moving into an old toolshed in the yard of an abandoned house. There’s no apartment hunting with this guy. Nope. He’s going to live in this dirty shed. Whether he considers it living here or not, that’s what this boils down to.

“And we’d have a place to hang out together and be alone,” he adds, squeezing my hand so tight his metal rings dig into my fingers.

I sway a bit as my gut lurches with a new realization. This place, this shed, will ultimately become a love nest if I want to continue to see him.

There will be no couch or bed.

No TV and VCR to watch movies.

No kitchen to keep snacks in.

No bathroom.

“It’ll be nice,” he continues. “I bet there’s lots of crickets chirping at night and the sound of the leaves blowing in the trees. This thing has a tin roof. Do you know how fuckin’ cool that’ll sound when it rains?”

The organic excitement in his voice is like that of a child’s—so pure and honest that I’m carried along to that place with him.

“It’s perfect,” I say softly.

He kisses the top of my head and puts his arm around me. “It is.”

As we walk back to my car, he asks questions about my job, showing genuine interest in my life, and I hope he’s forgotten about his idea of staying in the shed. When we finally reach my car, he takes his things, and when he kisses me on the street, I wish I had one of those minivans with a fold-out bed in the back and curtains over the windows. I would let him and Acorn live in it, and he wouldn’t have to look for a somewhere anymore. Maybe he’d finally want to stop wandering and walking.

“I have something for you,” he says with his hands still on my waist. “It’s just something I made when I couldn’t sleep and was thinking about you.”