The Man Who Shouldn’t Have Stayed(2)

The Man Who Shouldn’t Have Stayed

Chapter 2

Roman took his time in the shower.

I stayed in the kitchen, staring at the mug he had left on the counter, and tried to decide whether I was more angry at him or at myself. The smart thing would have been to grab my phone, step into the hallway, and call someone. Anyone. Instead I stood there listening to the water run and replaying the way he had said my name like he already owned the right to use it.

When the bathroom door finally opened, steam spilled out behind him. He had a towel around his waist and nothing else. Water still clung to his collarbones and the dark hair on his chest. The bruises looked worse in the light — deep purple along his ribs, a nasty scrape across one shoulder, the cut near his temple clean but angry. He moved like the pain was information rather than something that controlled him.

He noticed me looking and didn’t bother covering up further.

“You don’t have extra towels,” he said.

“I wasn’t planning on company.”

“Clearly.” He walked past me to the couch, picked up the jeans he had worn the night before, and checked the pockets with calm efficiency. Whatever he was looking for wasn’t there. His mouth tightened once, then smoothed out again. “I’ll need to borrow clothes for a couple of days.”

“You’re assuming a lot.”

Roman glanced up. “I’m assuming you’re not going to shove a half-healed man out the door in a towel. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

I wasn’t going to. We both knew it.

I went into the bedroom and dug out an old pair of sweatpants and another T-shirt. When I came back he was standing at the window, looking down at the street through the blinds with the careful attention of someone counting exits. He took the clothes without comment and disappeared into the bathroom again. This time he came out dressed. The T-shirt was still too tight across his chest and shoulders. I hated that I noticed.

“I have a shift at two,” I said.

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

A faint almost-smile touched his mouth, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Fear is useful. It keeps people careful. You’re already being careful. You’ll lock the door when you leave. You won’t tell anyone I’m here. You’ll come straight home.” He said it like a list of facts, not requests. “In return, nothing in this apartment gets disturbed, and no one who might be looking for me has a reason to look at you.”

“You keep talking like I already agreed to terms.”

“You did. The moment you helped me up those stairs.” Roman moved closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that the air between us changed. “I’m not a good guest, Eli. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But I pay my debts. You kept me breathing last night. I’ll keep your life simple until I leave. That’s as close to fair as this gets.”

I held his gaze for a long second, then looked away first.

“There’s leftover rice in the fridge,” I muttered. “Don’t touch the whiskey. It’s the only bottle I have left.”

“Understood.”

I got ready for work in silence. Every time I moved through the apartment I felt him tracking me without staring. When I pulled on my jacket he was back at the window again, partially hidden by the curtain. The bruise under his eye had darkened. He still looked like the most controlled person in the room.

At the door I paused.

“If I come home and you’re gone, I won’t look for you.”

Roman’s voice came quiet and certain from behind me.

“I’ll be here.”

He was.

I spent the entire shift feeling like I had left a live wire running through my apartment. Every time the bar door opened I half expected trouble to walk in looking for him. Nothing happened. The hours dragged. When I finally locked up and started the walk home, my pulse was already elevated.

The apartment was dark except for the lamp near the couch.

Roman sat in the only armchair, legs stretched out, one of my books open in his hands. He looked up when I entered, gave me a once-over like he was checking for damage, then returned his eyes to the page.

“You’re later than I expected.”

“We had a rush.” I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary. “You’re reading my stuff.”

“You don’t have a television. Options were limited.” He closed the book and set it aside. “You walk the same route every night. Same pace. You check the street behind you twice between the bar and the corner. Good habit. Keep it.”

The fact that he had been paying that much attention made my stomach turn.

I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge just to put space between us. The rice had been eaten. The whiskey bottle was untouched. A clean glass sat upside down on the drying rack. Small things. Controlled things. They bothered me more than mess would have.

“You’re staring again,” Roman said.

“I’m deciding whether I regret this yet.”

“And?”

I shut the fridge and turned. He had stood up. The apartment was too small for the way he took up space. Even injured, even wearing my clothes, he carried himself like someone who had never once been the weaker person in a room.

“I haven’t decided,” I said.

Roman walked toward me slowly. Each step was deliberate. I backed up until the counter edge pressed into my lower back. He stopped just inside my space, close enough that I had to tip my chin up to keep eye contact.

“You’re lying,” he said, voice low. “You decided the second you woke up and I was still here. You’re just not ready to admit what the decision was.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“That part of you wants me to stay longer than a few days.” His eyes moved over my face. “That you’re already wondering what I look like when I’m not bleeding. That the same instinct that made you help me in the alley is the same one keeping you from throwing me out right now.”

My throat felt tight. “You don’t get to narrate my thoughts.”

“Then stop making them so easy to read.”

He lifted one hand and set it on the counter beside my hip, not touching me, just closing the last of the escape routes. The heat of his body was a solid presence. I could smell my soap on him again, mixed with something darker that was just him. My pulse was so loud I was certain he could hear it.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Roman said quietly. “Not tonight. You’re not ready, and I don’t take things that are still half-decided.” His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second, then returned to my eyes. “But I am going to tell you the truth. The people looking for me are worse than I let you believe. A few days might become a week. A week might become longer. Every day I’m here increases the chance that this apartment stops being safe for you.”

“Then leave.”

“I will. When the risk of staying outweighs the risk of moving.” His voice dropped further. “Until then, you and I are going to share this space. You will not like all of it. I will not always be gentle about the parts you dislike. But I will not lie to you, and I will not let what follows me touch you if I can stop it.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to feel.

I should have shoved him back. Should have told him the deal was off. Should have done anything other than stand there with my hands gripping the counter and my body betraying me with every too-fast breath.

Roman pushed off the counter and stepped away first.

“You should sleep,” he said, tone returning to something almost neutral. “I’ll take the couch. Properly, this time.”

He moved past me toward the living room. The absence of his nearness left a strange hollow feeling in its place. I stayed where I was until I heard the soft sound of him settling onto the couch, then walked into my bedroom and closed the door.

I didn’t lock it.

I lay in the dark listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of another person breathing in my apartment, and hated how quickly the sound had started to feel less like an intrusion and more like something I would notice when it was gone.

A few days, he had said.

I already knew it was a lie.

The only question left was how much of the truth I was willing to accept before the choice was taken out of my hands entirely.