“Yeah. His apartment’s taking longer than expected.”
“How long’s it been now? Five weeks?”
“Haven’t really been counting.”
“Long time to be living with someone.” His tone was casual, but there was something underneath it. Something sharp. “You two getting along okay?”
“Fine. He’s a good roommate.”
“I bet he is.” Boucher’s eyes moved back to me. “Can I come in? Just for a minute. Want to make sure you’ve got everything you need.”
No. Absolutely not.
But refusing would give him exactly what he was looking for.
“Sure,” I said, stepping back. “For a minute.”
He came in, and I felt the violation of it immediately. His presence in my space—our space—felt like contamination. Like something dirty and dangerous infecting the sanctuary we’d built.
Étienne had settled back onto the couch with his phone, looking relaxed. Too relaxed. A performance of casual comfort that was just slightly off if you knew what to look for.
“Savard,” Boucher said. “Still here, I see.”
“Still here.” Étienne’s voice was level. “The landlord is dragging his feet.”
“Tough break.” Boucher moved further into the living room, his eyes cataloging everything. The two water glasseson the coffee table. The blanket we’d shared last night, still spread out on the sofa. My tablet next to Étienne’s. A basket of mingled laundry waiting to be folded. The general air of cohabitation that we couldn’t completely hide.
Nothing explicitly incriminating. But also, nothing that screamed “just teammates.”
“Nice place,” Boucher said. “Very… comfortable.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You keeping it clean, Savard? Or is Morelli the housewife in this arrangement?” He laughed like it was a joke, but the homophobia underneath was clear.
Étienne’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “We split chores. Like adults.”
“Of course, of course.” Boucher moved toward the kitchen, looking around. “Mind if I grab some water?”
Yes, I minded. I minded everything about this.
“Help yourself,” I said.
He went into the kitchen, opening cabinets like he had a right to, looking at how we’d organized things. He pulled out the bottle of Étienne’s Canadian maple syrup, examined it like it meant something, then set it back and opened the next cupboard.
“Cabinet above the dishwasher,” I managed, forcing the words past my clenched jaw.
“Ah, there we go.” Boucher opened it with exaggerated care, as if he hadn’t been deliberately opening the wrong ones.
“You’ve got a nice setup here,” he said, filling a glass from the tap. “Very domestic. Cozy.”
The word “domestic” felt like an accusation.
He came back to the living room, drinking slowly, his eyes still moving over everything. The photos on the wall—mostly family, a few of the team. The shoe rack by the doorwith two pairs of sneakers and his hiking boots next to my desert boots. The bookshelf with my books and now some of Étienne’s mixed in.
“So, Savard,” Boucher said, settling onto the sectional without being invited. “Most guys would’ve found a hotel after the first week. Or crashed with different teammates. Spread the burden around, you know?”
“He’s not a burden,” I said. My tone was casual, but I felt the tension underneath.
