The Train Station Away From Home.

Chapter Five: The Train Station Away From Home

Ian flopped onto the bed, the plush comforter doing nothing to soothe his racing heart.

He kicked his feet in the air like a frustrated teenager before burying his face in his hands, a low groan escaping his lips.

I kissed him. I actually kissed him.

The memory replayed in his mind on a humiliating loop…the soft pressure of Zhedya’s lips, the way his own body had melted into the touch, the dizzying, needy passion that had taken over.

He’d been so swept up in the relief and gratitude that he’d just… lunged.

“I was supposed to thank him, not maul him!” he muttered into the pillows, his voice muffled.

He was going to die of embarrassment. There was no way he could face Zhedya now. The man was already too intense, too knowing. This would just give him more power.

He had to get out. Just for a little while.

He needed the familiar, cramped comfort of his own apartment, the distant, comforting rumble of the trains, and space to breathe without the intoxicating and terrifying presence of Zhedya Hunter.

Creeping downstairs the next morning, Ian prayed Zhedya had already left for work. He peered around corners, moving with the silence of a thief in his own… well, in his temporary home.

Spotting a glimpse of Zhedya moving in the study, he darted into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge to grab a yogurt.

He closed the fridge door and jumped, his heart leaping into his throat.

“For goodness sake! Stop sneaking up on me like that!” Ian nearly yelled, clutching his chest.

Zhedya stood leaning against the counter, having apparently been there the whole time, a faint, amused glint in his grey eyes. “Are you avoiding me because we kissed last night?” he asked, his tone blunt and unfiltered.

Ian’s face flamed. “N… no!” he stammered, the lie weak and pathetic even to his own ears.

Zhedya scoffed softly, pushing off the counter to start preparing coffee. “Still a terrible liar, little journalist.”

The nickname sent a fresh shiver down Ian’s spine. “I didn’t know you liked men,” Zhedya continued, his back to Ian. “Or is it just me you like?”

The directness was a punch to the gut. “No, I don’t! I’m not gay,” Ian blurted out, a defensive, automatic response born from years of confusion and fear.

“Are you dating someone?” Zhedya asked calmly, as if discussing the weather.

Ian shook his head, even though Zhedya couldn’t see him, and took a frantic bite of his yogurt. “No.”

Zhedya turned, his gaze knowing. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he murmured, so quietly Ian almost missed it. The words were a whisper, but they felt heavy, possessive.

Swallowing his food, Ian seized the moment. “I’ll be heading back home tomorrow. I miss my little apartment. It’s not too far from the train station.”

Zhedya froze for a fraction of a second, the coffee pot poised in mid-air. Then he turned, a smooth, practiced smile gracing his features. “Are you sure?” The question was gentle, but his eyes were sharp.

“Yes,” Ian insisted, forcing confidence into his voice. “I don’t have any reason to stay here anymore. Zack is dead. I can’t just… hang onto you forever.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” Zhedya’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You know, your blog was the first to leak the evidence against the Swift Strangler. People will be wondering how you got that information.”

He took a slow step closer. “Those people might include other… evil men like Zack.”

A seed of icy doubt sprouted in Ian’s stomach. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I guess I’ll just have to tighten my security,” Ian said, his voice less certain now. “But I want to go home, Zhedya.”

Zhedya watched him for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed, a soft, conceding sound. “If that’s what you want, then fine.”

The words were agreeable, but everything in his posture screamed the opposite. “I can have a tech guy set up CCTV cameras for you. For security reasons.”

“Yeah… sure. Thanks,” Ian mumbled, the victory feeling hollow and strangely dangerous.

*****

The next day, Ian zipped his bag shut with a finality that made his hands tremble. “I think that should be all.”

Zhedya’s guards carried his bags downstairs. As Ian made his way down, he saw Zhedya descending the grand staircase, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, looking more like he was heading to a high-stakes merger than a simple farewell.

“I’ll drive you,” Zhedya announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Consider it my farewell service.”

Ian found the sudden accommodation deeply unsettling.

The man who had practically commanded him to stay was now casually offering a chauffeur service.

The whole ride was filled with a tense, polite silence, broken only when Zhedya stopped to buy an absurdly large bouquet of flowers and a bag of gourmet groceries.

“A housewarming gift,” he’d said, his smile serene.

Pulling up to his familiar, slightly rundown apartment building, the distant sound of a train horn was the most beautiful thing Ian had ever heard. Home.

“You can go in. I’ll help you with your bags,” Zhedya offered, already grabbing them from the trunk.

“You really don’t have to…”

But Zhedya was already walking toward the building, and to Ian’s utter confusion, he seemed to know exactly which door was his.

He carried the bags straight to Ian’s bedroom without a single wrong turn, moving through the small space with an intimacy that made Ian’s skin crawl.

“I’ll just… check the locks. Make sure everything’s safe,” Zhedya mentioned, his voice soft but his eyes watchful, scanning every corner.

“The CCTV is already set up and active.” He was like a collector releasing a rare bird, only to watch it from a hidden blind, waiting to see if it would fly back to its cage.

“If you need help unpacking, I…”

“No!” Ian interrupted, a bit too sharply. “There’s no need for that. You can… you can go now.”

Zhedya’s gaze locked with his, intense and searching, as if trying to see the very thoughts swirling in Ian’s head.

Finally, he gave a slow nod and walked to the door. He paused on the threshold, looking back.

“You know, Ian,” he said, his voice a low, intimate caress. “You can always come back anytime. My door is always open.”

His grey eyes held Ian’s, the message clear and terrifying. “You will always need me.”

The door clicked shut, and a violent shiver wracked Ian’s body. The words were a promise, or a threat…he couldn’t tell.

He fell onto his worn couch, his eyes drifting up to the small, dark lens of the new CCTV camera in the corner.

For the first time, his apartment felt less like a sanctuary and more like a different kind of cage.

*****

Ian woke with a start, his neck stiff from falling asleep on the couch. The room was dark. He blinked, sniffing the air. A familiar, spicy scent lingered.

Why does my apartment smell like his cologne?

He walked to the kitchen, opening the fridge to find something to eat. It was fully stocked. Fresh fruit, expensive juices, gourmet meals…all things he hadn’t bought.

A slow, reluctant smile touched his lips. “I know it’s you, Zhedya,” he whispered into the quiet. It was creepy, but part of him, a part he hated to acknowledge, was flattered by the obsessive attention.

As another train rumbled in the distance, he thought he heard a soft knock. He paused, listening. It came again, faint but definite.

He padded to the door and pulled it open. The hallway was empty.

But on his welcome mat sat a single, perfect black rose. A small note was tied to its stem with a silk ribbon.

Sleep well. - Z

Ian picked it up, his heart doing a complicated, nervous flutter. “Does he think he can just… woo me?” he murmured to himself, shaking his head. “What is he even thinking?”

*****

Across the city, Zhedya sat in the leather chair of his dark study, the glow of multiple monitors the only light in the room.

On the central screen, he watched Ian pick up the rose, a small, tender smile playing on his lips. He saw him find a jar, fill it with water, and place the flower inside before carrying it to his bedroom.

Zhedya had a perfect, high-definition view of every room. The tech guy had been very thorough.

He watched Ian change into soft sleep pants and a t-shirt, his movements sleepy and unaware.

He watched him climb into bed, the moonlight from the window silhouetting his form. He watched until Ian’s breathing evened out in sleep.

A possessive, burning heat coiled low in Zhedya’s stomach.

His hand slid down, palming himself through his trousers, a low groan escaping his lips. His eyes never left the screen as he undid his belt, his breathing growing ragged.

He imagined it was Ian’s small, clever hands on him. Ian’s brown eyes, wide and hazy with desire, looking up at him.

Ian’s lips, the ones that had been so surprisingly eager against his own.

“Ian,” he moaned, the name a prayer and a claim as he spilled over his own fist, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

He leaned back in his chair, chest heaving, his gaze still fixed on the sleeping figure in the bed.

After a moment, he opened a drawer, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it, taking a long, slow drag. The smoke curled in the blue light of the monitors.

He wasn’t letting go. He was just giving the bird a longer leash. And he would be watching, every single second, until Ian flew right back into his hands.