“Third floor,” she says, tapping the button. “Tenant is reliable.”
“Good,” I say, more to myself than to her. Two weeks. No chaos. No noise. Control what I can: sleep, fuel, ice time.
The elevator hums, a calm heartbeat against the adrenaline in mine. I count breaths and rebuild my schedule in my head—new commute, new kitchen, zero distractions. When the doors slide open, Mrs. Patel leads down a shorter, narrower hall than mine. The carpet smells like lemon cleaner and fresh paint.
I keep my duffel close. One month. I can do one month anywhere.
She knocks on 3B. Inside, I hear the soft scrape of a chair, then footsteps. The door swings open.
A woman fills the frame—hair braided back, eyes sharp and tired in a way I recognize. Plants trail from shelves behind her. A kitchen glints to the left, all steel and order. The air smells like lemon zest cut with garlic. Familiar and not.
I know her face from Élan—the chef who never flirts back, who watches the room like she’s running game film. She knows mine, if the flicker in her gaze says anything.
Mrs. Patel stops in the doorway, gesturing toward Sage with a warm smile. “Temporary placement,” she says, ushering Leo forward. “Mr. Voss, this is Ms. Winslow.”
The chef’s mouth goes tight. My chest loosens anyway. Order. Stainless. A place to sleep.
I shift the duffel higher and offer a nod that feels like a promise I intend to keep. “One month,” I tell myself, stepping over the threshold into someone else’s quiet.
The door closes behind Mrs. Patel with a click that feels too final. I stand there for a second, duffel strap cutting into my shoulder, letting my eyes adjust. The place is smaller than I expected. Clean, organized, warm—nothing like the sterile minimalism of my penthouse. It smells like citrus and heat, the faint echo of garlic roasted too long ago to still be visible.
She crosses her arms, eyes sharp as she looks me over. Her voice is calm but edged, the kind of controlled irritation I’ve heard from coaches right before a storm. “Patel said there’d be a temporary placement,” she says. “She just didn’t say it was you.”
I lift my hands slightly. “Patel said you agreed. Look, I’ll stay out of your way. One month, tops. I’ll pay rent. Whatever you need.”
Something flickers in her expression—wariness giving way to calculation. Rent money might be the magic word.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But if you touch my knives, we’ll have a problem.”
I nod, a ghost of a smile threatening to show. “Deal.”
I move past her toward the couch, careful not to brush against any of the plants spilling from shelves along the wall. They look healthy, alive, like she actually talks to them. My place had never smelled like this—like living things.
She watches me set my bag down. “You’re not… allergic to anything, are you? Garlic, peanuts, strong personalities?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “No. I’m low-maintenance.”
She snorts softly, unconvinced. “That’s what all high-maintenance people say.”
I crouch to unzip the duffel, pull out a week’s worth of training clothes and my food containers—plain, labeled, precise. Her gaze lands on them.
“Let me guess,” she says dryly. “Chicken. Rice. Repeat until death.”
“Fuel,” I answer automatically.
“Food,” she corrects, tone firm, like we’re drawing battle lines over definitions.
The tension between us is subtle but alive, sparking in every exchanged word. She doesn’t seem intimidated, not like most people who recognize me do. It’s almost… grounding.
I place the containers neatly in the fridge. She leans against the counter, studying me like I’m a recipe she can’t quite decide if she wants to perfect or toss.
“You’ve been in Élan before, right?,” she says finally. “You don’t talk. You don’t drink. You sit at the corner table and eat like it’s a job.”
I glance at her, surprised. “You notice everyone that closely?”
“I notice who respects the food,” she replies, no hesitation. “You do. That’s rare for your type.”
My type. I don’t ask what she means—I already know. Athletes. Entitled, loud, careless. I’ve spent years proving I’m none of those things.
