The hallway inside is dimly lit by a single blinking bulb, casting erratic shadows on peeling wall paint and stained floors. The elevator reeks of urine and stale smoke, and I nearly vomit again as the doors screech shut behind us.
Bea presses her floor number, and we ascend in jolting silence with her arm firm on my back and her shoulder bearing some of my weight. I don’t lean fully into her—I won’t burden her like that—but the contact feels comforting, so I let myself enjoy it while it lasts.
The elevator dings, and we step into another silent hallway with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. We don’t talk as she leads me to her door, her keys jingling softly in her hand. She unlocks it with a click, and we step inside.
Only for me to fucking freeze.
Because this sure as hell isn’t where she lives. At least, it shouldn’t be. The place is the size of a shoebox—quite literally. As we both step inside, there’s barely space for anything else.If I turn around too quickly, I’d probably smack into one of the walls.
In front of me, squeezed between two plain walls with a decent-sized window high up, is a queen-size bed, its length fitting exactly from wall to wall like it was built into the room. To the left, there’s a tiny sink, a couple of cabinets that look like they’ve seen better days, and a smattering of personal items: a mug here, a book there, a folded blanket.
That’s it. No actual kitchen, no living area—just a cramped space.
“Keep moving,” she reminds me, her voice gentle but firm, nudging me forward.
“Where?”
“To the bed,” she replies, irritation creeping in as she closes the door behind us.
I make a move toward it, but she yanks on my sleeve. “Shoes.”
“Sorry.” I kick them off awkwardly, leaving them by the door, and shuffle to the bed, glancing at her uncertainly. “What do I do?”
“Sit on it and wait for me.”
“Is there anywhere else I can sit?” The idea of sitting on her bed feels too intimate, too personal—like crossing the line we’ve both been tiptoeing around. Something that shouldn’t be done in these circumstances.
“Floor.” She points at her feet with a wry smile. “Help yourself.”
Bed it is. I carefully lower myself onto the very edge, making the mattress dip under my weight, and stare at her, trying to ignore that the room smells like her and that the scent is creeping into my nose to take up permanent residence.
“I’m going to start a shower. Take off your shirt, I’ll check the damage.”
She pulls open a door I hadn’t noticed before—tucked into the wall like a secret—and flicks on the light inside. Water starts running soon after, and the sound echoes in the tiny space. I didn’t even realize she had a bathroom here because the place is so compact, everything packed in like a puzzle box. How does she live like this? Day in, day out, in this confined world?
When she comes back, I’m still sitting in the same position, shirt on, frozen by the absurdity of the place and situation.
“Shirt, Noah,” she orders, snapping her fingers with a no-nonsense air.
“Yeah.” I rise to my feet, wincing, and take the shirt off slowly, pulling away the fabric that’s still damp from half-dried blood and sweat.
She takes only two steps to stand right in front of me while her watchful eyes assess the damage. I already know there are no cuts on my body—the hits were blunt, flesh cushioning bone. But my face is another story. The cut on my forehead has been oozing since the car ride, and it’ll gush anew under hot water.
“Do you have an extra toothbrush?” I ask, standing in front of the shower in only my pants while the steam fogs the mirror.
“Yeah.” She rushes to one of the cabinets in the makeshift kitchen area, rummaging inside before handing me a new one. Then she retreats to the bed, giving me space.
As I step under the hot stream, my bones nearly cry out in relief—and pain. The water pounds against my bruises and turns the drain red with diluted blood.
The hits I took today were nasty. I’ve always been one of the winners in the ring, rarely losing even to bigger guys because I’m one angry motherfucker, and my rage makes up for size. I’ve always been good at dodging too, so hits to the face are rare. But not tonight. Tonight, I got distracted—by her wide eyes in the crowd—and paid for it against that sack of bricks. It’s goingto hurt for weeks, and the healing will be slow and frustrating, which means I can’t go back into the ring anytime soon.
And now, with my face looking like ground meat, there’s no way I can avoid telling Ezra. Everyone will know. But not tonight. Tonight, I just need a break from the world.
So I take my time, letting the steam clear my head, though the dizziness lingers. Concussion for sure. I’ll be out cold soon, so I need to call George, have him pick me up before I collapse here.
I turn off the water and realize there’s no towel in sight. The bathroom is as minimal as the rest—barely room for a sink, toilet, and shower stall.
“Bea?”
