He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t hang up either.
Something tightens in my chest.
“Is something wrong?” I ask gently.
I already know the answer is yes. I just don’t know what yet.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Can we talk somewhere?”
The desperation in his voice wipes away every ethical reminder I’ve been clinging to.
“Absolutely,” I say without hesitation. “Where?”
A pause. Then, quieter, “Look, I don’t need everyone knowing, so, I could come to your place? If that’s cool?”
It’s not.
Not ethically. Not emotionally. Not in any way that ends cleanly.
But I hear how raw he sounds. How close to the edge.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
I text him my address and immediately regret how fast my pulse is racing.
The second I hang up, I’m moving. Kicking off my sweats, pulling on jeans and a soft sweater, fixing my hair, dabbing on makeup like it matters. Like he matters.
This is stupid, I tell myself.
So stupid.
And yet, ten minutes later, I’m smoothing my sweater again when there’s a knock at the door.
I open it.
He steps inside, broad shoulders filling my doorway, eyes scanning the space like he’s trying to get familiar with my apartment.
“This is a really nice place,” he says quietly.
I glance around at the neutral walls broken up by framed photos full of color, bookshelves that sag under too many paperbacks, my navy couch worn soft from years of curling up on it after long days.
“I didn’t expect this,” he adds.
“What did you expect?” I ask.
He shrugs, walking farther in. “I don’t know. Something more clinical. Cold, I guess.”
The words sting more than they should.
“Is that how you see me?” I ask. “Clinical and cold?”
He spins around instantly. “No. Hell no.”
He drags a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “It’s just I don’t know anything about you. You’re as good at locking yourself up as I am.”
The irony nearly takes my breath away.
“You have no idea how right you are,” I murmur.
