I’d stared at the message long enough to start imagining things. Like maybe he wasn’t actually at Rob’s. Maybe he already had someone new. Some soft-voiced, herbal-tea-loving stranger with a neutral-toned wardrobe and a perfectly curated playlist for “intentional mornings.” Maybe that was why he ended things. Not because I was too much, or too loud, or not soft enough… but because someone else was already standing where I used to.
And still, I’d slept better than I had in weeks.
The bed at Eric’s apartment had felt like mine again for one last night. I starfished right in the middle and didn’t dream at all. When I woke up, it was with the rare kind of clarity that followed emotional exhaustion and ten solid hours of unconsciousness.After dressing and grabbing the last of my stuff, I went to my kickboxing class down in the Mission and kicked the shit out of some poor imaginary opponent. Possibly Eric. Possibly myself. Hard to say.
Now, I was dragging boxes up three narrow flights of stairs to my new apartment in a century-old San Francisco building that definitely wasn’t made for moving day. My tank top clung to my back, and my hair stuck to my neck—the tang of sea air and city grit mixing in the hallway. My body begged for mercy. I probably shouldn’t have gone to kickboxing class this morning, but my brain had needed the outlet. Kickboxing was my first and longest committed relationship. It had never lied to me, never needed me to soften or shrink. It just needed me to show up and hit hard.
By the time I reached the third floor, my arms were trembling, and my shin had a mysterious bruise. I cursed under my breath as I nudged the box against my hip and knocked on the apartment door with my elbow. Somewhere outside, a bus hissed to a stop, and the bass of a passing car rattled the window glass.
No answer.
I fished out the keys Roman had given me yesterday and unlocked the door, fully prepared to be underwhelmed by the man who alphabetized his spices but didn’t believe in matching throw pillows.
Instead, I opened the door and found Roman Velasquez leaning against the fridge like a shirtless pagan god.
He held a mason jar filled with iced coffee the exact shade of temptation. He wasn’t really wearing pants either, just a towel slung dangerously low around his hips, as if it had been personally insulted by the concept of modesty. Tattoos curled down his arms and across his chest. His hair was damp, and his smirk made it clear he knew exactly what he looked like.
Of course. Of course he’s stupid hot. Because the universe just loves giving me men I can’t have.
“Hey, Mags,” he said. “I was starting to think you were going to ghost me.”
The Sound of Musicsoundtrack played through the speakers, and I wondered if I was trapped in a fever dream. “Do-Re-Mi” drifted through the room as he sipped his coffee and raised a dark brow at me.
I stared. I tried not to. I really, really tried. But it was like trying not to notice the fire alarm going off. My eyes did their own thing. His posture was relaxed, all confident angles and shameless comfort in his own skin. He looked like trouble—the hot kind. The kind you thought you could handle until you woke up wondering how the hell you got into the mess you were in.
“Give me five minutes to put pants on and remove all traces of my questionable decision-making from the living room,” he said.
I stepped over a stack of incense and a pair of black leather boots.
“I’ll give you three,” I said, dragging my box inside and praying to whatever ancient power governed sanity that I hadn’t just made the worst, and most absurdly attractive, mistake of my life.
Unpacking wasmy version of a personality cleanse. I folded sweaters with military precision—sleeves aligned, corners tucked. My bras were stacked like they were reporting for duty. Socks rolled. Pants in rank. The drawer slid closed with a satisfyingclick, and for a few seconds, I could almost pretend everything else was under control too.
I lined my books on the windowsill in a neat gradient of color—romance, thrillers, a shame pile of self-help books I never finished. Roman’s music drifted down the hallway, some kind of sultry indie-folk that couldn’t decide if it was brooding or flirty. It was annoyingly good. And loud. The bass thudded like a pulse under my feet.
I was tucking my toiletries into a drawer when a loudcrunchcut through the music. Roman stood in the doorway, munching on an apple. His shirt was barely clinging to the idea of being clothing, thin and loose enough that it was more a suggestion than a garment.
“Need a hand?” he asked, voice full of mischief. “Or do you bite people who touch your stuff?”
I could tell he was feeling me out to see how well I could take his banter. It had been a while since I’d had someone to perform that push and pull with. I’d forgotten how much I loved it.
“Depends,” I said. “Do you alphabetize by title or trauma level?”
He grinned like I’d just given him a challenge.
We headed down to my car together. Roman jogged down the stairs ahead of me, taking them two at a time. I tried not to watch the way his back muscles moved under that threadbare shirt, but unfortunately, I still possessed eyes. The faint scent of rain on pavement and sourdough from the bakery down the block drifted through the open window in the stairwell, reminding me that the city was alive. My body was exhausted from kickboxing and unpacking, and apparently, it had decided to short-circuit straight into attraction territory without checking in with my brain.
“Three flights up. No elevator,” I grumbled, trying to keep it light. “You really like to weed out the weak, huh?”
“If they can’t carry emotional baggageandliteral baggage,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin, “they’re not roommate material.”
“Good thing I have suitcases full of both,” I muttered as I unlocked the car.
He laughed and loaded up like he was prepping for war. He shouldered two overstuffed duffel bags, tossed my winter coat around his neck and grabbed a box labeled FRAGILE in my handwriting—bubble letters that were underlined three times. He held it with surprising gentleness, like it contained precious heirlooms.
“You sure about that one?” I asked, following him with narrowed eyes. “Most people who’ve helped me move in the past see that label as an invitation to punt it.”
“I have decent baseline intelligence,” he said without missing a beat. “I know better than to drop a box that says ‘don’t drop me.’ Also, the texture of the cardboard makes me twitchy, so I have to hold it a certain way.”
