And just like that, I’m moving.
• • •
Hayden doesn’t slamthe door in my face, which I count as a minor victory. But hedoeshesitate, gaze guarded, flickering uncertainly over my expression like he expects me to bolt or perhaps challenge him outright.
The moment I step inside his apartment, two things register simultaneously.
One, the space is unexpectedly inviting. Not physically warm. Hayden keeps the temperature somewhere between crisp autumn evening and morgue. But it feels genuinely lived-in. Dark wooden shelves hold books, vinyl records, and artifacts that could comfortably reside in a museum. An antique globe waits patiently in a corner, the kind you’d spin absentmindedly while contemplating the fate of the world.
Two, Hayden Harlow in sweatpants should require a permit. And a warning sign. And maybe a cold shower on standby.
Black T-shirt clinging indecently to the lean muscles of his shoulders, gray sweatpants slung low across his hips. Barefoot, with his dark hair tousled like he’s run a restless hand through it one too many times.
I stare too long. Long enough that my brain briefly stops functioning and has to reboot like an overheating laptop. My mouth goes dry. My pulse? Thrumming like it’s auditioning for drumline. No suit, no polish. Just Hayden, devastatingly real in one hundred percent cotton.
“Have I grown a second head?” Hayden asks softly, his arms crossing self-consciously over his chest.
Hell, no.But the one you already have is doing things to me, sir.
I snap out of it and thrust the wine I swiped from Elijah’s stash. “Here.”
He eyes the bottle, lips twitching. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I say, heart fluttering. “But it seemed…appropriate.”
He retreats to the kitchen, and I attempt to keep my eyes above the waist.
I do not succeed. His sweatpants cling in all the right, sinful places, and his ass is…well. I think I’m drooling.
There’s something beneath his cool exterior. Tension and uncertainty and something else I don’t know if I’ve ever learned the name of.
He pours us both a glass, his back still turned. “You didn’t have to come here, either.”
“Ah,” I say softly, slipping onto a stool at the counter. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Something moves in the corner of my eye. A sleek gray cat hops onto the ottoman, tail curling regally around his paws. Amber eyes watch me with the kind of passive judgment only a cat is capable of.
“You have a roommate…” I say as his furry companion clocks me.
Hayden glances over his shoulder. “Seby,” he says simply.
I reach out, scratching lightly behind the cat’s ear. He leans into it immediately, purring loud enough to fill the quiet.“ ‘Roommate’ doesn’t seem right, though,” I tease. “Feels like he runs the place.”
Hayden’s mouth twitches. “He would agree.”
He turns slowly, wariness sliding back over his features as he hands me my glass of wine. “I suppose you’re here for answers.”
“Ding, ding, ding.” I take a careful sip, then set my glass down gently. “You left like someone yanked up a root you’ve spent years burying.”
His eyes darken, fingers tightening around his glass. “Fitting,” he says, like the word tastes bitter.
I hold his gaze. “Hayden.”
He inhales deeply. “You won’t believe me.”
“You’d be surprised what I’m willing to believe.”
He shakes his head, pacing a slow line beside the counter. He’s uncomfortable. Avoidant. His not-quite-shadows, because that’s what they are, a darkness that clings to him in ways I can’t explain, seem to flicker in the dim light. They ripple subtly, like smoke curling from a fire, and for the first time, I realize they’re not just around him.
