He looked so alone in the rain.
Call me stupid, but I helped him when I normally wouldn’t.
Heading down the hallway, I grab what I need and come back to find he hasn’t moved, his eyes tracking me around the room. His unnatural gray hair drips from the rain, highlighting his perfectly smooth and unblemished face, pink lips, and eyes darkened with makeup. He screams wealth, and he’s definitely not someone who should be standing in my apartment, but here we are, and it seems he also doesn’t know what to do.
I throw a towel at him as I run the other one over my hair, then hang it around my neck as I walk to the kitchen—anything to fill the silence. I press the machine on to warm the water and turn to face him as he dries himself.
“Tea or coffee?” I ask. I shouldn’t offer. It might encourage him to stay, and I don’t like anyone in my space, especially strangers. I should just let him call whom he needs to and leave, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the fact that I found him laughing like a maniac while on the brink of tears . . . .
I have a feeling Zia needs a sanctuary at the moment, and I’m not sure why I offer mine, but I do.
He seems to shake off his shyness, and a cocky grin tilts up his lips as he runs his gaze over my kitchen. “I don’t suppose you have anything stronger, do you?”
I scoff. “Rough night?”
When he doesn’t speak, I lean back against the counter, running my eyes down the length of his body. His clothes are practically transparent, his abs showing through the hole-filled material, and I can see the clear outline of his dick through his pants. “I don’t drink, not while I’m training anyway,” I reply.
He nods, pursing his lips as he wanders through the room. I watch him as I pour two hot chocolates, and when I add whipped cream on top, I turn and find him sitting on the window seat, his eyes on the water.
Heading his way, I place the mug next to his legs, which are elegantly crossed, and I fold my big frame into the other side. Our knees touch, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and I blow on my drink.
“What do you train for?” he finally asks.
Maybe I should tell him to leave, but honestly, he looks like a lost puppy, and something about him raises my protective instincts, so instead of demanding he go, I lean back and settle in, getting comfortable.
“I’m a boxer,” I reply. That’s putting it mildly.
“Are you any good?” He runs his eyes over me. He looks curious, not judgmental.
I shrug, and he smiles softly. It changes his whole face, and I find myself staring. “Either you’re shy or don’t like to brag. Both are dumb. If you’re good, admit it. If you don’t shout your praises, nobody elsewill. You have to be your own biggest supporter, you know? So . . . are you any good?”
“I’m aiming for the title this year. I’ve never lost a fight,” I say, understanding what he means, but I’m not one to boast. I just put my head down and get on with it. It’s who I am.
“So you’re good,” he surmises, his smile growing before he looks away again. “Is this the gym where you train?”
“Yeah, my family owns it.” I sip my hot chocolate. “What happened tonight? You look like shit.”
He lets out a full belly laugh that seems to catch him off guard, and when he looks at me, his eyes sparkle. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been told that.”
“I bet,” I grumble. Even drenched, this man is beautiful. “You don’t have to tell me.”
He nods and stares out of the window, and we lapse into silence. That’s fine by me, as I usually prefer it. It’s easier than conversing. No one ever says what they truly mean, choosing to dance around it. I understand boxing. It’s about strength, speed, and skill. The harder you train, the better you are, but everything else in the world?
Yeah, I don’t get any of it. My brain doesn’t work that way, or at least that’s what the doctors said.
“I just . . . You look like you went through something, okay? I didn’t mean to pry,” I mutter.
His eyes are still focused on the foggy window, his finger tracing shapes in the condensation. “Shit is an apt description,” he finally responds. “I realized something tonight.”
“What?” I prompt. A boat honks as it glides under the bridge, and he watches it for a moment.
“I can’t do this anymore.” He looks at me, his gaze steeped with hurt and loss, and I drown in his pain. They say the eyes are windows to the soul, and this man’s is in so much agony, I can taste it. “My boyfriend cheats on me all the time. Everyone knows it, and they all know that I know. We all pretend I don’t. It’s like an unwritten rule. Deep down, I always thought he would stop, grow up, and love meagain. When you’ve been together for so long, you take each other for granted, but . . . it hurts.
“It hurts every fucking time because I still love that man. I think I always will, but I can’t do this anymore. I’m just so tired of being hurt and used and hearing his apologies. Sorry means he’s guilty.” He looks back at me. “How do you stop loving someone?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I’ve never loved anyone that way, so I can’t tell you.”
He nods and sweeps his gaze over my face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to trauma dump on you. There’s just something about you that’s easy . . . different. Everyone around me is looking for a handout, and they’d use this like a weapon, but I have a feeling you won’t.”
