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The apartment was the epitome of modern, nothing remotely vintage or antique in the place. The rugs were all white, so was the furniture, and all the cabinets were high-gloss white that you had to push in and everything popped out. I couldn’t see where the refrigerator, dishwasher, or pantry were. All I saw were white walls. There was also chrome and glass. Lots of windows. I could see the stove and oven, there was an island in the middle of the kitchen made of white granite, or possibly the quartz again, and his bedroom was like a doctor’s office, all white. When I opened his closet—which took me a minute of walking around, pushing on walls to find, making me feel like Indiana Jones looking for secret passages—all the clothes were black. I couldn’t have stifled my laughter if I’d tried, and found I could not, for the life of me, keep in the snickering.
I had been wandering, but he caught up to me when I lost it and doubled over.
“What’s so funny?”
All I could do was gesture at everything. I could barely breathe.
“You’re making fun of my place.” He scowled at me.
I tried to pull in some air and straightened up, wiping at my eyes. “Are you sure you want to stay with me? I mean, it might be sensory overload for you.”
He crossed his arms and glared at me.
“It’s literally black and white in here.”
“What?”
I waved at the bed, all white, then at the clothes in the closet, all black, and lost it again.
“I have other stuff.”
No, he did not. His running shoes, his Converse, his basketball shoes, all white. Everything from boots, to wing tips, to loafers, to sandals, all of them were black.
“I have T-shirts that aren’t black,” he snapped at me.
“And underwear, I’m sure,” I teased him. “I bet it’s white.”
“Listen—”
“Is white your favorite color?”
He thought a moment. “No. Black.”
I lunged at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and hugging him tight. “I’m so sorry, but I will not let you live in a sterile environment anymore. Your life is going to be full of eclectic pieces of furniture that don’t match, where nothing is curated, with art hanging everywhere, even in the kitchen, in a home that is grounded and warm, where the second you walk in, you know you’re loved.”
His arms slid around me, and he pulled me close.
It hit me then, what I’d said, how authoritatively I’d expressed myself, and the presumptions I’d so hastily made. “Wait, let me back-up. If minimalism is what you honestly love, if you crave order and starkness, then we will find a home that reflects both of our—”
“No,” he whispered, bending to nuzzle his face into the space between my neck and shoulder, biting gently so I bucked against him. “I want the cozy home where I walk in and know I’m loved. I’ll take that.”
“But if you like—”
“I don’t,” he whispered, and his warm breath on the side of my neck made me shiver.
“Then for now, do you have suitcases?”
8
DEACON
It was funny how you didn’t realize how truly awful something was until you could see it through someone else’s eyes. And honestly, a sleek, clean space was not something I’d ever minded until I was in my mate’s home—now mine as well—the night before.
I had woken in the night, but not with nightmares or insomnia, both of which I was sure were caused by the same event: The beatings I’d received from ages five to fifteen, until my father left. And they weren’t nightly, which was actually worse. You could prepare for a pattern. Without one, there was only surprise and terror.
As an adult, I knew all that was over, but still, in my apartment, the lights stayed on while I slept so at any moment, I could open my eyes and know where I was. But last night, in Sasha’s little house, I’d woken up to go to the bathroom, and when I did, I’d immediately inhaled his scent on the pillow, in the air, and from his hair under my chin. He was still, even after hours, draped over me. Unlike others, he didn’t just want to be close, but snuggled up. There was no trigger for fear, simply rest. It was overwhelming that my mate, who was smaller, physically weaker, could hold every demon at bay.
I’d walked around his home in the early morning, sat in each chair, looked at all the candles, and been comforted by the light over the stove in the kitchen being on. Then I’d stood at the sliding glass door looking out at the moonlit backyard and realized I was comfortable in every square inch of his place. Even the guest room was warm, the rugs in the hallway were thick and pleasing to walk on with bare feet, and though I thought I loved tile, it turned out that polished wood floors were much better. And they creaked, which was an added safety feature in my book. You could tell if someone you didn’t want or expect was in the house.
