The hotel café is trying very hard to convince me it's Paris.
Tiny tables, tinier chairs, and a six-dollar coffee that tastes like someone whispered "espresso" at it from across the room.
But it beats going back upstairs to my hotel room, where the AC wheezes like it's dying dramatically and on purpose.
Apartment listings fill my screen. Every single one is worse than the last.
It's like the city saw me looking and said, let's punish her personally.
The ring on my finger sits innocently on my hand. It hasn't done anything weird today, which is suspicious on its own. When a toddler gets quiet, you don't celebrate, you worry.
I'm side-eyeing a listing advertising "shared laundry with flexible communication expectations" when a new one appears like a cosmic breadcrumb.
PRIVATE SUBLET: 3 MONTHS, FURNISHED, UTILITIES INCLUDED.
I click instantly.
Photos load:
Tight shots.
Nothing wide enough to show a full room.
A section of hardwood floor.
Part of a window.
A corner of a sofa.
A kitchen counter with a stove cropped into the frame.
A bedside table with a lamp.
All close-ups. All practical.
No sense of size or layout.
It reads like a modest apartment.
Simple. Clean.
Exactly what I need.
And not overpriced, which means:
Scam
Haunted
Or someone fleeing the city and needing a warm body for insurance purposes
Honestly? Haunted would be fine.
I hit Contact Listing Owner before rational thought can tackle me.
The reply arrives within minutes:
Sublet-contact:
Available today. Can show it at 3pm.
Relief slides through me like warm water.
Me:
3 works. Thank you!
The building is not what I expected.
Not even close.
Glass and stone rising far higher than the photos suggested from the inside, clean lines catching the afternoon light in a way that makes me feel underdressed just standing outside it. It looks like the kind of place that requires fob access and a steady income and possibly a degree in finance just to breathe in the lobby.
How do I keep finding myself in places like this lately?
I check the address twice, as is my tradition at this point.
Then once more, slower, as if the numbers themselves might have politely changed to something more reasonable.
They don't.
Inside, the air is cool and still, and the floors are the kind of polished stone that don't forgive scuff marks. A security guard looks up from his desk, takes me in with one curious blink, and then, unexpectedly, nods.
"Touring thirty-four?"
There is a small moment where my brain tries to catch up with the fact that I even dared enter such an extravagant place, let alone that there is a man who somehow knows who I am here to see without asking my name or even pretending to check a list. But my mouth answers before my brain can stage a protest.
"Yes."
He gestures toward the elevators.
"You're all set. They'll take you up."
I have no idea what that means, but I smile like I do, because leaving right now would involve admitting out loud that I can't afford to be here or exist here or continue standing on this shiny floor without breaking something.
The elevator doors slide open.
Inside, the light above the 34 button glows patiently, like it has been expecting me.
Of course it has.
I step in.
The doors close.
There's no music, no soft dinging, nothing except the low hum of machinery and my pulse climbing up my throat.
When the doors open again, there's no hallway.
No unit numbers.
No cluster of doors.
Just an apartment.
An entire one.
Waiting as if I have somehow walked into the wrong life.
And standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled at the forearms, posture relaxed in a way I've never seen at work, is fucking Evander.
Because of course. I am having a stroke.
None of this is real. I am still asleep in my scratchy hotel bed, living my mundane little archivist life, going through a break up, and dreaming of a life that was never meant for me.
"Miss Hale?" I hear him say through my mental breakdown, blinking as if he genuinely did not expect me, even though I had no say in where the elevator dropped me off. I must have the wrong floor. Or planet.
My brain produces only static.
"You, this, your, what?"
His mouth curves, a subtle thing, more amused than anything else.
"Come in," he says, and it is not formal or carefully measured, just simple, as if letting me into his home is the most natural thing in the world.
I step forward because not stepping forward feels somehow more embarrassing.
"I didn't realize it was you when I replied," he says once the elevator doors close behind me.
I look around.
Not a landlord special.
Not a quaint little apartment.
I wasn't totally sure what to expect from the pictures, but certainly not this.
It is a penthouse.
Not subtle. Not maybe.
It is the full city-view, floor-to-ceiling window, silent air conditioning, everything-has-a-purpose kind of space.
"You're subletting this?" I ask, because my brain is still attempting to reboot.
"Yes," he says. "I'll be house sitting for Dr. Leighton while he's traveling abroad. I don't need two roofs over my head."
His smile hints at a joke. He made a joke.
"I've never had a tenant before," he adds, quieter. "But if it were you, I'd feel comfortable with that."
Something warm stirs in my chest, fragile as a match being struck.
"I didn't know this was your place when I messaged," I say. "I thought this was… I don't know. A little one-bedroom somewhere."
He lifts an eyebrow, amused and almost shy at the same time.
"I apologize. The photos were not informative. I am still trying to get the hang of my phone camera. I hardly have use for it."
That is the gentlest way to say I don't have a reason to take pictures of my life I have ever heard, and it makes my heart melt into a puddle behind my ribs.
Then he gestures, palm open, taking a step back so I can wander if I want.
"Let me show you the rest," he says, eyes lighting up. "It's not much. Just home."
Home.
He says it softly enough that I don't think he realizes he has said it that way. I don't know if he realizes he is doing anything he is doing, especially to my blood pressure.
The living room is open and clean without being sterile. The kind of tidy that comes from habit rather than performance. A few books stacked with the quiet precision of someone who genuinely reads them. A chessboard left mid-game, pieces poised like they have been waiting for him to return. A blanket folded neatly, but still soft around the edges, like it actually gets used.
"It's very you," I say before I can swallow the words.
He stops.
Just stops.
Not with discomfort.
More like someone hearing their own reflection described back to them for the first time.
"You think so?"
I shrug, suddenly aware of how much space I am taking up in my own skin.
"It feels thoughtful. Ordered. And calm, I guess. That's how I would describe you."
His eyes soften, not dramatically, just the slightest lowering of guard.
"Calm," he repeats, as if testing the word.
"That's nice to hear."
And for a moment, just a moment, it feels like the two of us are standing in the same quiet place, seeing one another clearly for the first time.
He steps ahead of me toward the kitchen, not in a "follow me" way but in a way that leaves the path open, like he is letting me explore alongside him rather than in his wake.
"This is where I attempt very basic forms of cooking," he says lightly, as if confessing something harmless. "So there are just a few pots and pans, plates, the usual things."
The counter holds a cutting board, the faint scent of lemon, and a mug with tea that is clearly abandoned mid-thought.
I smile before I mean to.
"That looks like… functional cooking. Survival-level."
He makes a soft sound, an amused exhale.
"Precisely. I've learned enough to keep myself alive. Anything more ambitious tends to end with the smoke alarm involved."
I laugh, and something about it feels easy, like slipping into a warm bath I did not know I needed.
"So you and fire do not mix?"
"Historically, no," he says, deadpan.
"And even less so when I am fatigued."
There is something there, some small sliver of honesty he does not usually offer, but it floats between us naturally, unforced.
"You could have fooled me," I say, glancing around at the spotless counters. "This looks like the kitchen of someone who makes soufflés just for fun."
He huffs another quiet laugh, this one lingering at the edges of a smile.
"No soufflés," he says. "Just tea. And occasionally pasta."
"Tea and pasta. Very balanced."
He nods, solemn.
"I do my best."
We fall into a silence that is not uncomfortable.
It feels like a pause in a conversation we have had a hundred times, even though this is the first one like it.
I walk a little farther down the hallway, and he falls into step beside me, not guiding, just accompanying.
"You read a lot," he says. Not a question. More like something he has observed and held onto.
I blink. "How could you possibly know that?"
"You look at books the way some people look at dogs. Or paintings they recognize from childhood."
His voice softens.
"It's the first thing you paused at when you walked in."
I don't know what to do with the warmth that moves through me in response to that. It feels like being seen in a way that does not demand anything from me, and I am not used to it.
"I used to read all the time," I say. "Lately it's been harder. My brain feels… too loud."
He nods, as if he understands that exactly.
"Noise tends to drown out the parts of us that enjoy quiet things."
"Yeah," I say. "That."
We reach the end of the hall and for a moment neither of us moves. The air between us is still but not empty.
"What do you read?" I ask.
His head tilts, a habit I have noticed, but here it is softer.
"History. Strategy. A bit of science."
He hesitates.
"And poetry."
I blink.
"Poetry?"
He nods, almost bashful.
"It helps me recalibrate. Balance, as you said."
"That actually makes sense," I say before thinking. "You feel like someone who would like words you can sit inside for a while."
His eyes lift to mine.
There is something grateful in them.
Surprised, but warmed by the noticing.
"That is a very accurate description," he says quietly.
He gestures to the bedroom, and suddenly the tour feels like an afterthought to the conversation we have drifted into.
He steps ahead of me and pauses at the bedroom doorway, one hand lightly touching the frame but not blocking it. An unspoken invitation, gentle and unobtrusive.
"This would be yours," he says. His voice is soft, not out of hesitation, but out of respect for the space and, possibly, for me.
I take one slow step inside, and the shift is immediate.
Bedrooms always feel different from the rest of a home. More vulnerable, somehow. Less curated. More real. This one is no exception. Warm light, a quilt in muted colors, a bedside lamp shaped like a small moon. A place where someone actually rests. Or tries to.
I linger by the doorway, suddenly aware that being here feels… intimate. Not inappropriate. Not invasive. Just unexpectedly close.
He notices instantly. He always seems to, doesn't he?
"I'll move anything personal out of the room, of course," he says. "I meant to do it earlier. Your message simply arrived sooner than I expected."
There is a pause, soft as breath.
"But I was glad to receive it," he adds quietly, almost like he is saying it to the room.
Something warm unfurls in my chest, slow and cautious.
"It's a nice room," I say, because anything deeper might shatter whatever this moment is. "Feels peaceful."
His relief is subtle but recognizable.
"I hoped it would."
He steps back, giving me space to breathe, to look, to think. And when I join him again in the hall, there is a small, comfortable silence between us, one that feels lived-in despite being so new.
We walk toward the balcony, drawn by the light spilling in through the glass. He slides the door open, and the sound of the city rises up from far below, distant and softened, like another world entirely.
"This part gets the best morning light," he says, leaning a shoulder slightly toward the view but keeping his attention partially on me. "I thought that might be good for you."
"Why would you think that?" I ask, though the answer is already forming in the back of my mind.
"You squint under the fluorescent lights at work," he says simply. "Natural light seems kinder."
I blink at him, caught off guard.
"Do you just… notice everything?"
A small smile tugs at his mouth.
"I notice what matters to me."
Heat blooms up my throat, subtle but unmistakable.
We stand together for a moment, looking out over the stretch of buildings and rooftops, the sky beginning its slow shift toward evening. The city feels far away from here. Manageable. Almost kind.
He glances at me.
"Do you take many photos?" he asks. "You looked at the view like someone who appreciates it."
"No," I say, laughing softly. "Not really. My phone storage is ninety percent screenshots and accidental pocket pictures."
He looks amused at that.
"I understand. I am not much for photographs either. The listing's pictures should have warned you."
"Oh, they did," I say. "They warned me of handing the camera to someone else whenever I do want a picture."
He huffs a laugh, and it lingers there on his face.
There is a moment where I lean a little on the railing, and the words slip out before I can decide whether they are wise.
"It'll be nice to have a place that isn't… temporary."
He tilts his head.
"You have been moving often?"
"I've been avoiding going back to my old apartment," I admit. "I, uh… haven't exactly packed up yet."
His expression shifts, not with pity, but with a gentle, attentive stillness.
"I see," he says quietly.
"It shouldn't be a big deal," I add quickly. "I just need to pick up my stuff. Probably tomorrow, if I don't chicken out."
He watches me for a moment, not prying, not assuming, just considering.
"When you say 'chicken out,'" he asks gently, "do you mean it feels unsafe, or simply unpleasant?"
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Both.
Neither.
Everything in between.
The ring warms at my uncertainty, pricking at the edges of what I am trying not to say.
"It's complicated," I say. "My ex still lives there. And he's… not great at boundaries."
His posture shifts by less than an inch, but it is enough to register.
"I understand," he says.
We return inside, the air quieter around us after the doors are closed again.
He turns to me fully.
"Would you like someone to go with you?" he asks. The question is soft but certain. "When you gather your things?"
I stare at him, startled by how natural it sounds coming from him. How unforced. How offered.
"That's a big ask for someone you practically just met," I begin.
"I know," he says. "But I am offering."
There is no hesitation in him.
None.
Just calm certainty.
And something in me, something small and tired and grateful, softens.
"Yes," I say. "I'd appreciate that."
He nods, a slow, steady motion, like a promise settling into place.
"Then we will go together," he says.
The words are not dramatic or heavy.
They are simply true.
And for reasons I do not fully understand, they make breathing feel easier.