I follow him, still trying to process what just happened.
I have a place to stay.
I have a job.
I start Monday.
I'm going to be okay.
Maybe.
Chapter 2
The couch springs are screaming.
That's what wakes me—not an alarm, not the heat already pressing against the windows, but the sound of furniture being tortured. Again. The groan of metal, the creak of wood, the protest of something not built for a man who's six-foot-three trying to fold himself into five feet of cushions. He shifts and the whole thing complains, loud enough that I can hear it through the bedroom door I left cracked.
My bedroom door. His bedroom. The bedroom that was his until I showed up and he just—gave it to me. Moved his entire life onto a couch that hates him.
I'm staring at the ceiling, heat already building even though it's barely dawn, and the guilt sits heavy in my chest. Cedar and clean cotton—that's what the sheets smell like, what everything in here smells like. He changed them but the scent clings anyway, stubborn, a reminder that this space was his first. That I'm sleeping in a bed he slept in while he's out there slowly destroying his spine on furniture designed for someone half his size.
Movement in the living area. Careful, quiet—he's trying not to wake me which is sweet and also pointless because thatcouch sounds like it's being tortured every time he shifts. The springs groan. Protest. Creak in a way that makes me wince because I can hear the complaint in the metal, the furniture equivalent of "why are you doing this to me?" Footsteps pad across the floor. The soft clank of the coffee pot.
He's already awake. Of course he is. It's barely dawn and he's up, probably been up for a while based on how that couch was complaining all night. I heard every shift. Each adjustment. All the failed attempts to find a position that worked. The soundtrack of his discomfort while I sprawled across his mattress like a starfish hogging real estate.
I should get up. Face this. Figure out how to coexist in four hundred square feet without being a complete disaster. Except I don't know what that looks like. Do I stay in here until he leaves? Emerge and pretend last night didn't happen? Make small talk about the weather, which is already climbing toward unbearable and it's not even seven? Do we have a system? Should we have a system? I need a system. Systems make sense. Systems prevent awkwardness. Systems mean I don't have to think about the fact that I'm living with a man who gave me his bedroom and I can't figure out if that's kindness or pity or something else entirely and I really need to stop spiraling before I've even left this room.
"Stop it," I mutter to the ceiling. "Get up. Act normal. You can be normal. You've been normal before. Sort of. Sometimes. Okay not really but you can fake it for eight hours."
I throw off the sheet and pad to the mirror. My reflection is exactly what I expected and somehow worse: hair everywhere like I fought a windstorm and lost, eyes still puffy, and my tank top staged a full rebellion overnight. One strap's fallen off my shoulder and the neckline's shifted south to where I'm half a breath from a wardrobe malfunction. The girls are basically making a break for freedom. I tug everything back up,adjust them into something resembling containment, and think: Fantastic. Nothing says "responsible tenant" like looking like a truck hit you and your boobs tried to escape while you slept. This is fine. Everything's fine. I'm totally handling this situation with grace and dignity.
I open the bedroom door. Holt's at the kitchenette, back to me, and I freeze because—right. Shirtless. Again. It's his loft. His space. Of course he's shirtless. Why would he wear a shirt in his own home? That would be ridiculous. The fact that I'm having a crisis about his back muscles—about the way they shift when he reaches for the coffee pot, about the tattoos that wrap around his shoulders, about the fact that his spine is probably screaming right now from that couch and it's my fault—that's my problem. I need to stop staring. I need to be normal. What's normal? Is there a normal way to handle living with a shirtless man who gave you his bedroom?
"Morning," I say, and it comes out weird. Too bright. Overly casual. Like I'm auditioning for the role of Person Who Has Their Life Together.
He glances over his shoulder. Takes me in—sleep-messy hair, rumpled clothes, general disaster energy, the tank top situation—and surprise flickers across his face before it smooths out, gone so fast I almost miss it. But I saw it. That half-second of something before his walls snapped back up.
"Morning." He turns back to the coffee. His voice is rough like he's been awake longer than I thought. "Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink."
"Okay. Thanks." I move toward the kitchen—four square feet of functional space that apparently both of us need to occupy simultaneously—and immediately realize the problem. He's standing right there. At the coffee pot. I need to get past him to reach the cabinet, and there's maybe six inches of clearance.Maybe. Possibly less. Definitely not enough space for someone with hips.
I should wait. Let him move first. Be patient. Except I'm not patient and I need coffee and my brain doesn't work without caffeine and I'm already committed to this disaster so I might as well lean in.
I squeeze past—or try to. Except there's not enough room, and I'm not built for narrow spaces. My shoulder brushes his arm. Then my chest presses against him—brief, unavoidable contact that makes my entire face go nuclear. His skin is warm, still holding sleep-heat, and I'm suddenly aware of every point of contact, the fact that I'm half-pressed against a shirtless man before seven AM while my tank top is barely doing its job. The scent hits me up close—soap and something clean and woodsy and I don't know what it is but my brain short-circuits because apparently proximity to attractive men before coffee is more than I can handle.
"Sorry," I mutter, grabbing a mug and retreating like the kitchen's on fire. My face is burning. Everything's burning. "Small kitchen. Very small kitchen. Tiny, really. Who designed this? A sadist? Someone who hates personal space?"
"It's fine." He pours coffee into my mug, then his own. Sets mine on the table. His movements are economical. Precise. No wasted motion.
Right. Coffee. I need milk. I grab some from the fridge, pour a splash, then start opening cabinets for sugar because there's no way this place has caramel creamer. I find it in the third cabinet and add two spoonfuls. Then a third because two isn't enough. Then maybe a fourth because I'm committed to making this taste like dessert instead of motor oil. I sit, wrapping both hands around the mug like it's a life preserver. "So. Morning routines. Do we have a system? Should we have a system? I can work around whatever you normally do, Idon't want to mess up your whole—what do you even do in the mornings? Are you a shower person? A breakfast person? Do you eat breakfast? Should I be making breakfast? I can make breakfast. I mean, I can make toast. And eggs. Sort of. Sometimes the eggs work. Sometimes they don't but that's really more of a pan issue than a me issue and I'm doing it again aren't I, the talking thing, where I just—"
"Scout."
I stop. He's watching me, coffee in one hand, leaning against the counter. His expression is unreadable but his eyes are doing something that might be amusement.
"Don't overthink it," he says. "I'm up before dawn. You won't see me."
"Okay. Yeah." I sip coffee. It's still strong even with all the sugar, the kind of strong that could strip paint or power machinery. "What about shower schedule? Laundry? Keys? Bathroom etiquette? Do we need a sock-on-the-door situation? Not that I'm planning on needing a sock-on-the-door situation but theoretically if someone needed privacy or—okay I'm making this worse. I'll stop."
