Ryan's hand hesitated on his apartment door handle for the third time that week.
He could hear Marcus on the other side of the door, just a few feet away in apartment 3C. The sound of his footsteps, the quiet murmur of his voice as he talked on the phone, the domestic sounds of someone living their life completely unaware that Ryan was standing here, listening.
It had been like this for days now, ever since Marcus had moved into the building, into Ryan's building, onto Ryan's floor, claiming it was for safety reasons after the assassination attempt.
Ryan knew better. Marcus had moved here to be close to him, to refuse to let go even after Ryan had pushed him away.
And it was working. God, it was working.
Every morning, Ryan would find something outside his door. Coffee from Marcus's favorite shop, still warm, a bag of pastries from the bakery down the street.
Marcus never wrote his name on anything, but Ryan knew. Of course he knew.
