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The rain had downgraded to something light and fuzzy, like just being in a better neighborhood meant better weather, but it was still cold on my arms and the back of my neck, and made me shake all over. I probably wouldn’t have minded so much if he’d touched me.
It was warm inside—steamy, old radiator heat that clung to you like you were in the boiler room— and I took a deep breath and looked around. The lobby wasn’t much but a wall of mailboxes and a bucket of umbrellas and a skinny set of creaky-looking stairs covered in a striped rug. Red and blue I thought, but the light was weak and the rug was faded.
I followed him up the stairs, inhaling what smelled like a thousand different dinners cooking, overlapping flavors like a food court. Barbecue and spaghetti and burgers and things I didn’t recognize but that made my mouth water and my stomach growl anyway.
The inside of the building was the same kind of cluttered and tight as the outside, with boots and boxes and bicycles crowding every landing. When we got to the third floor, he hung a left and stopped in front of a door marked 3A, and I watched him, hyper-aware of how he had to stoop over just to fit his keys in the locks. Dude had literally outgrown the status quo.
He pushed the door open and stepped back and stood there, waiting for me to go in ahead of him. I didn’t want to, and if I’d been in a stubborn mood I would have stood there all night or until he went in first. But part of me was still looking over my shoulder like I shouldn’t be here, like any second someone might come out from one of those other doors and tell me to go home where I belonged, so I ducked inside.
It smelled good instantly. Not like food, but like laundry or candles, or… I don’t know, justclean, and I took another deep breath as he flipped on the light and I looked around.
The place was pretty small, but there was a lot to take in. It wasfilledwithstuff. Plants and rugs and legit canvas paintings, and the kind of shit you buy for twelve bucks that doesn’t do anything but fill up space, like gold apples and glass giraffes and striped bowls.
He had a huge dark blue sofa with bright, striped pillows. And a whole wall of shelves stuffed with books. Called that one. There was color everywhere, which you wouldn’t expect, since he was sort of colorless himself. Kinda felt like looking in the window of Pier One at the mall, like he’d just pointed and said,yeah, all that, wrap it up.
I wanted to hate all the useless bright, shiny crap but you know I didn’t. I was getting harassed by that greedy, ragey, scaryneedto have it all. Steal it, hoard it, throw it in my backpack… except where would I go? This was where I was staying, I guess. This calm, clean fucking apartment where The Beast had been secretly living for who knew how long. What the hell kind of dream was this?
The kitchen and the living room were really all one room, and a table that was way too big took up a lot of the space. But maybe it needed to be that big— he never did look very comfortable anywhere he sat. I used to wish we had a kitchen table, and now here was one big enough to have a board meeting.
The hallway was so short I could look into the bathroom and the bedroom from the front door. The light was on in the bathroom, enough to see bright blue tiles on the walls. The bedroom was dark, just the shape of a bed in the shadows, but I was betting the walls weren’t dingy tobacco-beige. It was probably the nicest house I’d ever been to. Walker’s place might have been big and fancy, but it didn’t feel like this. I’d never been anywhere that felt like this— like I actuallywantedto stay here. Fucking great.
“This is…”
“I know it’s small,” he told me, totally misunderstanding what I was thinking. “But there’s plenty of room for you. If you want… the sofa pulls out.”
I stared at the sofa that looked softer and deeper than my mattress, plenty comfortable without turning into a bed, and then looked back at him. “Why would I want that?”
His eyebrows drew together and that was worry, I thought. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting anything.”
“I’mexpectingto sleep in your bed,” I told him, and I felt something like anger, but not quite, bubbling in my chest. Bait and switch did not work for me. I wasn’t here to feel like a fucking fool with my life in a duffel bag and him offering me the couch. “So let’s stop acting like that’s not why I’m here.”
“That isnotwhy you’re here. You’re here so I can take care of you.”
Tell me why that made my skin tingle and my nipples hard.
“Thought you wanted to put your arms around me and hold me all night.” It came out sounding like a dare, and maybe I meant to mock him, but he acted like I was being dead serious.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. If you’ll let me.” He grabbed my duffel out of my hand, like I got the feeling he’d been itching to do, and headed for the hallway. “Come on.”
I followed him into the bedroom, and when he flipped the light switch, the lamps on either side of his bed lit up. It was embarrassing how impressed I was by that. It wasn’t a huge room, but it was twice the size of mine, with a giant mattress and two big windows and a closet with mirrored doors that I was guessing didn’t have mice or mold inside.
Mostly the room was bare, empty where the living room was full. The floors were wood, no nasty carpet, and his dresser had all its drawers. The walls were gray because sure, of course they were, not a fist-sized hole in sight, and this all felt more like I’d expected.
I wasn’t a love-at-first-sight guy, but his bedroom made me feel a little something. I could sleep for a fucking decade on that bed. And then wake up and make some mad, filthy use of those mirrors. God, I bet his sheets were so fucking clean.
Caleb dropped my bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. “You trust me?” he asked, staring at me, and that was a big fucking ask.
I slid my backpack off my shoulder and dropped it down too, all of my shit in one tiny pile, my whole existence cooked down to just a couple of square feet of dirty laundry. Seemed about right.
“I mean, I guess I fucking do,” I told him. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Sure, it was a rhetorical question, but maybe not entirely.WasI here? Didn’t seem too likely.
He nodded and took a few quick steps toward me. I leaned back, not sure what was coming, but he just rested his hands on my hips. Slid them around my back. Eased them down to cup my ass and then he bent his head lower and kissed me. It was soft and quick, almost too fast for me to think about it, and then he was grabbing my shirt, pulling it off over my head.
“I’m gonna run you a bath,” he said, kissing and talking at the same time as he worked my zipper down. “So you can get nice and warm and relaxed. I’ll order us some food. And then I’m gonna take good care of your sore little bottom. Does that sound good?”
It really fucking did. I didn’t know whattake good caremeant, but anything he wanted to do to my ass was fine with me. Including calling it my little bottom, I guess, no matter how embarrassing that was and how little it was not.
Eating and relaxing, that sounded just as good, honestly. And my muscles werecryingthinking about a hot bath. The tub at home was not a place you wanted to spend extended time, but Christ, during football season I was sorealways. Even without the added stress of blowing up my life.
