“Fine,” I manage, crossing my arms. “As long as you follow the rules.”
“Rules?”
“Quiet hours. Clean up after yourself. And do not, under any circumstances, touch my knives.”
The corner of his mouth almost curves, but doesn’t quite. “You have my word.”
He steps inside but doesn’t sit, just stands there with his duffel still slung over one shoulder like he’s waiting for permission to exist in the room. Something about that—about how out of place he looks in my space—sparks a sharp, unwelcome pinch under my ribs.
I turn away before it can settle, pretending to tidy the counter that’s already spotless.
“You can lock the door if you want,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.
My pulse skips. “What makes you think I’m worried?”
“You keep glancing at it,” he says, voice low, amused.
I freeze mid-motion, caught. “Good night, Mr. Voss.”
“Leo,” he corrects softly.
The sound of his name lingers longer than it should.
I retreat to my bedroom and shut the door, pressing my back against it. My heartbeat thrums in my ears.
Temporary roommate. Sure.
Except nothing about this feels temporary—not the way the air shifted when he walked in, or the way his quiet took up space in my head long after the apartment went still.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. I lie awake listening to every creak and sigh of the apartment, trying to convince myself this is fine. Temporary, manageable, not terrifying. Somewhere between restless thoughts and dawn, exhaustion finally wins.
The next morning hums with the quiet shuffle of movement before the coffee’s made. I wake early—earlier than usual—and still feel behind. My body moves on autopilot: grind beans, heat water, try not to think about the hockey player sleeping in my living room.
The faint sound of shifting fabric tells me he’s awake before I see him. I peek out just in time to catch Leo sitting upright, rubbing his face with both hands. Even half-asleep, he looks like control personified—sharp jaw, steady movements, nothing out of place except the fact that he’s on my couch instead of a penthouse suite.
The smell of coffee begins to bloom through the kitchen as the first pour drips into the pot. It’s warm and grounding, filling the silence between us.
“Coffee?” I ask, voice raspier than intended.
He nods. “Please.”
I pour two mugs, careful not to glance at the way his T-shirt clings to muscles that really have no business existing before 8 a.m.
He takes the cup without ceremony. “Thanks.”
The quiet between us is taut but not uncomfortable. More like we’re both waiting to see what version of the other will show up today.
I busy myself in the kitchen, pretending I have somewhere to be other than here. The catering equipment gleams in the corner of my eye, all potential and unfinished dreams.
Out of nowhere, the intercom buzzes. Loud. Shrill. I jump hard enough to spill coffee down my wrist.
“Seriously?” I mutter, grabbing a towel. “Who’s at the door this early?”
Leo frowns, setting down his mug. “Expecting someone?”
“Not unless my landlord decided to check if I vacuumed.” I cross the living room and press the intercom button. “Yes?”
“Miss Winslow,” Mrs. Patel’s brisk tone crackles through. “Just following up about your tenant placement. Everything satisfactory?”
