He’d never been upstairs before—this was my space, my sanctuary—and now he was going to be sleeping down the hall. Possibly for weeks.
Oh, shit.
I moved through the bedroom like I was defusing a bomb. The gay hockey romance on my nightstand—shirtless model, suggestive title, completely damning—went under a pillow. Done.
The bathroom stopped me cold.
There it was. My curved, suction cup dildo on the counter, drying in the open like it was a perfectly normal thing to leave out. Which it was, when you lived alone. Which I did. Until now.
I grabbed it, wrapped it in a towel, and shoved it under the sink. The silicone lube from the shower went in right after. Cabinet closed. Problem solved.
Down to the living room. One more scan…
There. On the sectional. Another MM romance, spine cracked, wedged between the cushions where I'd fallen asleep reading it the night before. I pulled it out, marched it to the coat closet, and buried it behind the boxes on the shelf.
I closed the closet and turned in a slow circle, surveying my house with the critical eye of someone who had something very important to hide.
Bedroom… clean. Bathroom… clean. Living room… clean.
Safe. Probably. Hopefully.
I was going to lose my mind.
But what else was I supposed to do? Let him go to some hotel when I had an empty bedroom? Let him deal with thisalone when he was my best friend and clearly shaken, even if he was trying to hide it?
I couldn’t. I physically could not do that.
I’d survived three years of hiding my sexuality from him—keeping it buried deep, making sure nothing slipped, never letting him see what lay beneath the surface. I could survive a few weeks of him in my guest room. What I couldn’t quite prepare myself for was losing this—the privacy. The freedom of being exactly who I was within these walls, without calculation, without caution. After so many years of living alone, of having a space where I didn’t have to hide, I’d have to start all over again.
I headed back upstairs. The guest room was clean but impersonal—Gia had stayed there when she’d visited last year, and my parents had used it the one time they’d come out to see a game. I checked the hallway bathroom, made sure there were clean towels, extra toiletries.
My house felt different knowing Étienne would be living here soon. More alive somehow. Less like the carefully maintained space I retreated to, and more like an actual home.
I hated how much I liked that feeling.
By the time my phone buzzed again, it was nearly two o’clock.
Étienne
On my way. Sorry it’s so late.
Marco
Don’t apologize. Drive safe.
I made coffee even though it was the middle of the night, because I was awake and jittery and needed something to do with my hands. Checked the guest room again. Paced the kitchen. Tried not to think about what I was doing, aboutwhat it meant to have him here when he couldn’t leave, if I’d left out anything incriminating.
When I heard his car pull up to the curb, I was at the front door before he could knock.
The smell hit me first—smoke, acrid and heavy, clinging to everything. His clothes reeked of it, a burned smell that would probably take multiple washes to get out. Étienne stood on my doorstep with a duffel bag over his shoulder, his hair disheveled, exhaustion written across his face.
“Hey.” He looked so tired, so worn down by the last few hours, that my heart tore open.
“Come in.” I stepped back, letting him inside. “You look like hell.”
“Feel like it too.” He dropped his bag just inside the door and rubbed his face with both hands. “Everything I own smells like a campfire. Including me.”
“Guest room’s at the top of the stairs. Bathroom’s in the hallway.” I closed the door behind him. “Made coffee if you want some, but you should probably sleep.”
