Guest Arrangement

[IsabellaRose]

When Harper’s lease fell through at the last second, she was stuck. City rentals were impossible to snag mid-month, and her budget didn’t leave a lot of wiggle room. It was supposed to be just a few nights crashing with her brother’s old college roommate, someone she remembered vaguely from years ago, all sarcastic smiles and confident swagger. But when she showed up at his apartment, he wasn’t the greasy, annoying boy she half-remembered. He was older now, calmer, handsomer, somehow. And maybe it was the wide shoulders or the way he held her gaze too long, but something about him felt… different., dangerous in a quiet way.

Still, she had nowhere else to go. He said she could stay as long as she needed.

~~~~~

The first few nights passed without incident.

Harper kept her duffel bag tucked neatly under the edge of the couch. Leo worked late. She tried to stay out of his way. But on the third night, she’d fallen asleep in one of his old college t-shirts, oversized and threadbare, only to wake up to him tossing a blanket over her. His hand brushed her bare thigh for just a second longer than it needed to.

Neither of them said a word about it the next morning.

~~~~~

Things became routine. She made coffee in the morning. He cooked at night. Casual, easy. But then there was the towel incident.

She came out of the shower wrapped only in a towel, thinking the coast was clear. It wasn’t. He was standing in the kitchen, drinking something cold, leaning against the counter like he had every right to be there, which he did. It was his place. But she didn't see him, bent low looking in the fridge. When he cleared his throat from behind her, she nearly dropped the towel. He didn’t look away.

“You’ve got shampoo in your hair,” he said, eyes never leaving her.

She laughed, awkward and breathless. “Right. Cool. Thanks.”

They never talked about that either.

 

~~~~~

One night, it rained hard. The thunder shook the old windows. They shared a bottle of wine on the couch, her legs curled beneath her, the flicker of the TV ignored.

“You know,” she said, watching his profile in the glow, “this isn’t how I imagined it.”

“What isn’t?”

“Living with someone again. It’s... comfortable.”

He looked over at her, unreadable. “Comfortable’s not always a bad thing.”

She took another sip, then leaned her head back on the couch, her eyes half-closed. “No. It’s not.”

He didn’t move closer. But he didn’t move away, either.

 

~~~~~

It was later that night, the wine still warming her and fogging her mind. She couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking of how close he had been. It was late. Too late. She’d been staring at the ceiling long enough to know she wasn’t going to fall asleep without something... or someone... distracting her thoughts.

So she padded down the hallway, paused at his door, raised her hand.

She knocked once.

And waited.