“Other than the fact that the heater in my apartment picked tonight of all nights to die,” he huffs out an uncomfortable laugh as he ticks off his list on the fingers of his right hand, “and it’s pretty much the same temperature inside there as outside here,” another finger ticked off, “and I don’t know anyone to call for a place to go crash for the night—”
He lifts a shoulder in a flippant shrug, broadening his manufactured smile into a grin as he tosses his head to flip his hair out of his eyes.
“—nothing much.”
For one second, he shoots me a wide grin, and then the attempt at lighthearted ease falls away from his voice and face as he drops his eyes down to his Converse-clad feet shuffling slightly in the frosty sparkle of my icy doorstep.
“I know it’s shitty of me to come bother you like this,” healmost whispers, “but it’s so fucking cold, and I didn’t know where else to go—”
There’s a slight tremble to his lips as he breaks off, not like he’s about to cry, but like he’s only barely holding back from shivering. It’s the sight of that that snaps my brain back online and out of the useless spin it had gotten itself caught in as I’d tried to process this unexpectedly hesitant side of the bold, flirtatious man I’d let myself assume existed all the way down to Tristan’s core.
“Jesus, get inside and warm up—” I’m in the process of blurting, pushing my door wide for him to step in at the same moment he turns his eyes up to me again, wide and hopeful, as he asks, “Would it be alright if I crash on your cou—”
And then those eyes drift to the now open doorway, scanning the sparse interior of my apartment, taking in the dated kitchen in the back corner, the small round table, leaves dropped so it can fit up against the wall, my battered old chair beside my bookshelf opposite the upright piano I’ve come to think of as mine as well, before circling around to land on my rumpled, slept in bed.
I can see the moment he realizes whatisn’tthere.
“Your floor,” he recovers almost instantly, eyes snapping back to mine with another fragile looking grin. “Just for tonight, so I don’t freeze to death in my sleep?”
His eyebrow with the piercing lifts, and he actually bats his ridiculously long, dark eyelashes. Despite the forced feeling of the gesture and the way he’s still only just barely keeping his smile up, I can’t help the laugh he pulls from me, along with the answer that had already been on my lips from the moment I’d realized why he’d knocked. “Of course you can sleep here.”
Before I can consider whether it should or not, my handfinds the small of his back, and I’m guiding him through the door, practically pushing him into my apartment. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t resist, moving with what feels like willing relief under the pressure of my hand.
Maybe it’s this strange, unexpected glimpse of his vulnerability, or maybe it’s because our date was apparently such a complete failure that there’s no point in hoping or trying any more. For whatever reason, all the awkwardness that’s plagued me every time I’ve attempted to talk to Tristan before, including on our date tonight, seems to have evaporated.
“Why didn’t you come over as soon as you realized the heater was out?” I demand the moment I’ve closed the door behind us.
The confused expression on his face is almost comical; the way his head tilts to the side, the furrow between his brows, the slight scrunch to his nose. It’s all so endearing that it almost makes me forget my realization of a moment before that I need to try my best to make this as not awkward as possible for him.
“I heard you trying to fix it, or whatever you were doing,” I grin at him, side stepping to make room for him to slip out of his shoes. “That was what all that banging was a few hours ago, right?”
Maybe if I act like nothing happened and there’s nothing potentially weird about this situation we’ve found ourselves in…
Instantly, he freezes, his shoulders tensing up again.
Or maybe not…
“Shit. That was loud, wasn’t it? I’m really sorry—” He reaches up to muss his hair yet again as he stares down at hissock-clad feet where he’s standing, still crowded over by the doorway in the small entry nook, as if he’s not sure he should really come in more than that.
“I was up anyway,” I shrug, hoping I look nonchalant and that the statement doesn’t make him circle back to feeling guilty for having woken me up just now.
The thick fall of his bangs over his forehead as they slip free of his fingers isn’t enough to mask the anxious tension in his expression as he hesitantly nods in uncertain acknowledgment of my words. And then his eyes darken and his brows pull together as he worries the side of his lip, so lightly I’m not sure he’s even aware he’s doing it.
“You weren’t just now though.” It’s a statement, but his eyes are questioning when they flick up to mine and then away as he wraps his arms tightly around his middle again, tucking his hands under his elbows.
“You’re not pissed about me bothering you?”
“God no,” I shake my head for emphasis. “And you’re not bothering me.”
The stirrings of that impulse to pull him close and hold him and protect him rise in me again as a growing suspicion starts to make a few pieces of this strange interaction and the new side of Tristan it’s showing me fall into place.
Someone in his pastwouldhave been pissed.
Hoping to be unmistakably plain so he can at least stop worrying about this, I move to the side, catching his gaze in mine as I say, firmly, clearly, “I’m glad you’re here and not back over there freezing your ass off. That’s more than worth being woken up for.”
A bit of the tension seems to melt away from him at my words as his grip across his chest loosens and his face softensslightly.
“I’m not going to be an asshole and make you sleep on the floor, though,” I go on, hurrying to add the important explanation I should have led with— “I’ll sleep in my chair, and you can have my bed.”
