I hold out the spoon. "Try this."
He stands. Crosses to me. Tastes from the spoon, and the proximity, six inches, my hand, his mouth, is so charged I feel my pulse in my fingertips.
"Good," he says, voice rough.
"Just good?"
"I've been eating plain eggs for a long time. I don't have a frame of reference."
I laugh. He almost smiles, closer than before, right on the edge. "Sit. I'm feeding you a real meal."
He sits. I serve. He eats across from me, like a person eating dinner with another person. Simple food, rice and beans. He eats like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.
Evening settles. Dishes in the sink. The mango bowl on the counter bright against bare surfaces. My shoes by his door. Small invasions quietly changing the architecture of his self-denial.
I catch him looking at the mango bowl with an expression I can't read. Wonder mixed with grief. A man seeing color after a long time in the dark and not trusting it to stay.
Bedtime. The logistics we're both pretending are simple.
He takes the couch. I take the bedroom. Same as last night. He insists. I let him win because I'm learning which battles matter.
I open the bedroom door to say goodnight. He's on the couch, blanket, too-long legs hanging off the end. He looks up.
The hallway is dim. I'm wearing my oversized sleep shirt. His eyes track from my face to the shirt hem to my bare legs and back up. The journey takes one second and costs him visibly. The crucifix on the wall seems to lean forward, witnessing this moment of want.
"Goodnight, Gabriel."
"Goodnight, Sera."
My name in his mouth. Low. Controlled. A man gripping something with fingernails.
I close the door. Lean against it. Heart hammering.
On the other side: silence. The creak of the couch as he shifts. Then nothing.
I get into the new bed. Absurdly comfortable, the contrast with last night's plank almost funny.
He's on the other side of that door. Mere yards away.
The door is not locked. I could open it. He could open it. Mere yards of hallway between us, shrinking with every shared breath in this small space.
And every hour, it feels smaller.
11 - Gabriel
Sunday morning and there’s a woman in my shower.
The sound of water through these thin walls makes my cock stir before I'm even fully awake. My shower. My soap—she's using it because hers, she informed me with casual authority while reorganizing my kitchen, doesn't lather right with the hard water.
I sit on the couch where I slept—badly, this thing designed by someone who despises spines—and stare at the collar on the side table.
The water stops. Footsteps. Then she emerges in my robe—oversized, sleeves rolled three times, hem dragging. Her hair drips. Her skin glows pink from heat. She smells like my soap, which means she smells like me, which means my cock goes from stirring to fully hard in seconds.
I turn away, suddenly fascinated by my keys.
"Problem?" Of course she notices. She tracks everything—how I grip doorframes to keep from grabbing her, how I've mapped escape routes through my own kitchen to avoid brushing against her, how I haven't made proper eye contact since Wednesday when I came so hard in her mouth I saw God.
"We need to leave in an hour," I say.
