“Coffee sounds good, actually.” He followed me to the kitchen, moving slowly like his body was finally catching up to the adrenaline crash. “I’m too wired to sleep yet.”
I poured us both mugs, black for me, and added a generous pour of creamer to his without asking. Three years of friendship meant I knew how he took his coffee the same way he knew I needed mine strong enough to strip paint.
We sat at my kitchen island, the townhouse quiet around us except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the settling structure.
“Claims adjuster can’t come until Thursday,” Étienne said and wrapped his hands around his mug. “They’re saying it could be a couple of weeks before the smoke damage can be cleaned and the place is livable again. Maybe longer, depending on how bad it is.”
“So, you’ll stay here.”
“Marco—”
“Not a discussion.” I met his eyes over my coffee. “You’re staying. End of story.”
He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Why are you so insistent about this?”
Because I was terrified of what could have happened to you. Because the thought of you in some impersonal hotel while dealing with this made my chest hurt. Because you’re my best friend and I can’t stand the idea of you going through this alone.
“Because it makes sense,” I said instead. “I have the space and you need a place to crash. Simple.”
“Nothing with you is ever simple.”
He meant it as a joke, but it landed heavier than he probably intended. If he only knew how complicated everything with me actually was. How nothing in my life had been simple since I was fifteen years old and realized I was attracted to the guys in my junior hockey league instead of the girls who hung around after games.
“Well, this is,” I said firmly. “Finish your coffee and I’ll show you the room.”
He followed me upstairs a few minutes later, his duffel bag leaving a faint smoky trail. I didn’t think he’d ever been up here, so I showed him the guest room, the bathroom, and where I kept toiletries in the cabinet under the sink.
“Extra blankets are in the closet.” I stood in the guest room doorway while he dropped his bag on the floor. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”
“This is great. Really.” He turned to face me, and the gratitude in his expression made me want to look away. “I know I’m going to be in your space for a while. I’ll try not to be annoying.”
“You’re always annoying. This won’t change anything.”
He smiled, but it was strained around the edges. The exhaustion was catching up to him, pulling at his features.
“Take a shower and get some sleep,” I said. “We can figure out the rest tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He ran his hand through his hair, and I caught another whiff of smoke. “Night, Marco.”
“Night.”
I headed back to my room, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Étienne was down the hall. In my house. In my space.
This was going to be a disaster.
But as I lay there in the dark, listening to the sound of the shower running in the hall bathroom, I couldn’t quite make myself regret it. Knowing he was safe was worth temporarily losing my sanctuary.
Even if it meant spending the next few weeks torturing myself with his presence, with the domesticity of sharing space, with everything I wanted and couldn’t have just down the hall.
I’d survived worse. I’d survive this too. Because the alternative—letting myself want more—wasn’t an option. So, I’d be alert. I’d be composed. I’d be the same best friend I’d always been, just with him temporarily living in my guest room.
How hard could it be?
The shower shut off, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to picture Étienne naked in my guest bathroom.
This was going to be impossible.
