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Neither of us say anything as I unlock the door and hold it for him. He slides his sneakers off with his toes, then pulls off his wet socks and drops them in a pile, unable to hide his curiosity as he sneaks glances around the room.
“Give me the coat and your backpack.” I point toward my room. “Take a shower, then get some clothes from the top two dresser drawers.” There are plenty of showers downstairs, but some primal part of me wants him in mine. “Go on.”
He shuts the bedroom door. I wait until I hear the shower start before I put on some coffee and use a towel to dry off his path of drips across the floor.
Ten minutes later, as I shut the blinds, he clears his throat behind me. He’s standing uneasily in the doorway, with one foot balanced on top of the other. My white t-shirt fits tight around his bulky shoulders but hangs far down his thighs, almost covering up the pair of my boxers underneath. His eyes track my gaze to the underwear and he flinches. “Sorry. You don’t own any pants besides slacks. And they wouldn’t fit me anyway."
“It’s fine.” Prying my eyes away, I cross to the kitchen and point him toward one of the bar stools. “I called for a delivery meal. It should be here shortly.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” He rubs his stump through his still-wet hair. “I’d be fine with toast or macaroni.”
“Do I look like I buy macaroni?” I open the fridge door and show him the half of a salad in a plastic takeaway box and two cans of sparkling water.
His lips twitch. “You didn’t wanna share your salad?”
“I wanted something that would warm you up.”
“Oh.” He runs his finger along the swirling pattern of the smoky quartz countertop. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
I notice that he pointedly does not apologize for running away. Filling one of my heavy black mugs with coffee, I slide it over to him. “You can watch TV or read a book. I need to catch up on some work.”
He buries his nose in the mug. “Smells fancy.”
“It certainly doesn’t come in a red can.”
A smirk teases at his mouth. “You think you’re better than me?”
“Pretty sure,” I hum, watching his kicked-dog expression melt into a genuine grin.
Picking up my own mug, I circle the counter toward my office. “Make yourself at home.”
As I pass him, his fingers wrap tight in my sleeve, twisting the thin fabric, pulling me to a stop. He rests his forehead against my bicep. “I don’t know what to do, Gray.” His voice is an echo of my worst days, when I thought I had lost everything.
When I move to put my hand against his skin, still flushed from the heat of the shower, my phone rings and he jerks back.
“What?” I snap, watching Jonah skulk to the couch. Hanging up, I sigh. “Your food is here. I’ll go fetch it. Can we talk about this when I get back?”
He turns his head, propping his chin on the back of the sofa, and studies me without a word. All the way downstairs and back, I try to figure out what mistakes I’ve made, how I got here, why there’s a gorgeous, stubborn man curled up on my couch in my fucking underwear. How long we can talk before we give in. Whether I can let go of just enough control to let him touch me back. I’m hard in the elevator and I can’t even adjust myself because my hands are full of styrofoam containers of soup. He’s going to get quite an eyeful when I walk in the door.
The TV is on, but I don’t see him. I say his name, softly, and set the soup on the corner of the counter. When I come around the end of the couch, he’s sprawled across the cushions in a tangle of limbs, asleep. His head is tipped way back, his mouth open, breathing soft and slow and sweet, his face finally smoothed clear of worries.
I think he does try, maybe harder than anyone.
I search half the apartment for a throw blanket before remembering I own nothing that isn’t utilitarian. In the end, I pull a comforter off one of the unused beds and take it upstairs. He doesn’t stir at all as I tuck it around him and turn on the fireplace.
I never quite drift off that night. Somewhere around one o’clock, I open my eyes to a sound, my heart thudding because I haven’t shared a house with anyone since Colson. Jonah gets up, pisses in the guest bathroom, then microwaves the soup and gulps it down before returning to the couch. I’m not sure there’s enough willpower in the world to stop me from going to him, but I tell myself to count backwards from ten thousand first. Somewhere around seventy-eight hundred, everything disappears.
