The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone in my hand as the screen fades to black and my reflection stares back at me from the glass, dark circles, messy curls, and a mouth pressed into a line so tight it might as well be stitched shut.
Four months of showing up on time, doing good work, keeping my head down, and one database search erases all of it. A low growl tears from my lips as I grip the edge of the counter.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, my knuckles starting to ache from how hard I’m gripping the edge and I force my fingers to release, because if I keep holding on I’m going to put a crack in Lorenzo’s immaculate countertop and that feels like a poor way to repay the man who just gave me the best night of sleep I’ve had in two years.
It’s obvious I don’t belong here, though. No matter how good having Oliver fuck himself on my cock felt or Lorenzo’s whispered words in my ear felt, this isn’t my space. I head for the door, slipping on one shoe and searching for the other, only to find Oliver peeking out into the hallway before I can find it.
His hair is a disaster, sticking up in at least four different directions, and the glitter on his cheekbones has migrated overnight. There’s a streak of it along his jaw and another one on his shoulder where he slept on his arm, which means if I stare in a mirror, I’ll be a mess of glitter too.
He’s wearing briefs and nothing else, his eyes still half-closed as he leans against the doorframe with the boneless posture ofsomeone who hasn’t fully committed to being vertical. His gaze moves from my face to the shoe on one of my feet to the phone clutched in my hand. The sleepy softness in his expression sharpens by a degree. “Coffee?” he asks.
“I should go.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He pushes off the doorframe and pads past me into the kitchen, pulling two mugs from the hooks without waiting for my answer. The coffee maker lets out a small ding, realization that I would have never slipped out of here without their notice. Oliver hits the button with the ease of a routine he’s performed a thousand mornings in a row. “Cream? Sugar? Both? Lorenzo has some fancy oat milk shit if you’re into that.”
“Black.”
“Boring. Perfect.” He fills both mugs when the pot finishes and slides one across the counter to me, eagerly waiting for me to step up toward it. I hobble over, still only in one shoe, Oliver’s fingers brushing mine during the handoff.
His smile widens a little before he grabs his own mug, pouring a spoonful of cream and an offensive amount of sugar before taking a sip while watching me over the rim. I do the same, relishing the strength of it. It’s strong enough to strip paint, which is exactly how I need it right now. I drink half of it in one pull, the heat of it burning a path down my chest that gives me something to focus on besides the phone call and the shoes and the exit I was calculating thirty seconds ago.
“Bad morning?” Oliver asks. His voice is soft but his expression tells me he actually cares about my answer.
“Got fired.”
“Today? It’s 8 AM.”
I just shrug because it’s not the first time. “Voicemail. They didn’t even wait for business hours.” The bitterness in my own voice surprises me as I stare into my mug. “A background checkflagged my old job.” I pause for a moment, wondering if I want to sabotage whatever happened here and realize that it’s for the best. Better to get the disappointment over early. “Hearthstone.”
Oliver’s mug pauses halfway to his mouth. “The Omega center? The one that got shut down?”
“Yes, that one.” I take another drink, bracing myself for the moment Oliver throws me out or worse, Lorenzo demands I leave. “I worked there in their care program. It’s a long story and none of it matters because nobody lets me get past the name before they stop listening.”
“I’m listening.”
The words are simple enough. Four syllables, no dramatic emphasis, no wide-eyed sympathy face. Oliver says it the same way he said coffee, like it’s obvious, like the offer costs him nothing because he’d already decided to make it before he opened his mouth.
“It’s not a fun story.”
“Didn’t ask if it was fun. Do you want more coffee? Lorenzo never lets me have more than one cup but he’s not up yet so don’t tell him.” He reaches for the pot and tops off my mug without waiting for confirmation. “You can tell me or not. Either way, you’re not leaving this kitchen until you’ve eaten something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Oliver ignores me but it doesn’t feel rude or like he’s dismissing me. In fact, it almost seems like he’s easily giving me an out, every time he opens his mouth. “Lorenzo made frittata last night before his shift. It’s in the fridge. You’re eating some.” Oliver’s voice carries as he gulps down some of his coffee before opening the refrigerator door and retrieving a glass container.
The next several minutes, I watch the Omega fight with the lid, the plates in the cabinet, and then the microwave as he determines how long to set it. It feels like an eternity later, my smile loosening at his little grunts and frustration that Oliverplaces a plate in front of me like he wasn’t just struggling. “Ta-da!”
I snort at the presentation, the slice leaning over to the side but dig in anyway, some part of me wanting to please Oliver. A low groan filters through my lips as I nod, about to lay down the fork when he just growls at me.Guess I’m not done eating.
“So,” Oliver says, dropping onto the stool across from me and folding his legs beneath him, “you’re unemployed.”
“As of twenty minutes ago.”
“And you were working at the Omega place before your most recent job?”
“Before several jobs. I left Hearthstone almost two years ago. Everything since has been temporary because this keeps happening.”
