21. Esperr #3
In a way this is what it felt like being around Zyran. Maybe that’s why it felt so safe, because whatever it is about him reminds me of this. Being able to breathe without thinking.
There’s something about the dark, about the ceiling pressing close and the walls holding shape around you, that makes everything outside of it feel like it belongs to someone else for a minute. It stops the noise, the feeling, the part of you that can’t stop spinning.
“Esperr?” Oliver’s voice cuts through. “You still with me?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Good, cause I’m not sure what I would do?—”
“Ollie?”
“Hmmm?” he hums, not an ounce of being bothered that I cut him off.
I pick at a loose thread on my sock, eyes still closed. “Do you think they’d be proud of me?”
I’m met with silence, but it’s not the uncomfortable kind–Oliver’s silence never is. It’s the kind where I know he’s choosing his words, treading carefully.
“Stop,” he finally says. His tone is gentle but firm, something in the way that he leaves no room for argument. Oliver usually doesn’t get like this, but when he does, it’s the few times I do listen. “Of course they would.”
I don’t say anything, squeezing my eyes closed.
“Esperr.”
“I heard you.”
“Then you need to believe it.”
I don’t, and I don’t think I ever will. But I’ve learned there are some arguments you let people, especially people like Oliver, think they win. Because fighting them costs too much and sometimes it’s not worth fighting with the only people who’ve got your back.
So all I do is mutter a ‘yeah, whatever,’ which makes him half laugh and half exhale, like he already knows what I’m doing.
“Alright, stay inside, keep your phone charged, and check in with me before bed, or I’m calling every hour on the hour.”
“I’ll check in,” I tell him, ready to get off the phone.
“Promise me,” he says sternly.
“I promise,” I tell him, shifting and pressing one palm flat against the floor.
“Alright, love you.”
I hang up, the words at the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. I can’t.
Dropping my phone onto the floor, I blow out a breath, letting the silence press in around me. Most people can’t stand the quiet, always needing a sound, whether that be music or something on the TV.
And usually I don’t mind it, but when my skin crawls and the oxygen gets stuck in my lungs, I have to go here.
It’s like it’s my safe?—
A knock echoes through the walls from the living room. I don’t think as I pull myself up, my joints stiff from the floor, and pad out of the closet and down the hall.
The apartment feels colder near the front door, the draft sneaking in from under the frame.
I place both hands on the door, peering into the peephole.
Out of anything I could be expecting, which isn’t much since no one knows where I live, Zyran is at the bottom of that list.
I ignore the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth and pull the door open. He stands there in the dim glow of the hallway, a bag over one shoulder, snow caught in his hair, and I physically have to stop myself from reaching forward.
“What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, not doing anything but giving me those little smirks he always does.
“Zyran,” I start, crossing my arms over my chest. “There’s a storm coming; go home.”
“I know there’s a storm coming,” the corner of his mouth pulls up, just barely, but it’s enough. “That’s why I’m here.”
“That’s not—” I stop, shaking my head, doing my best to gather the energy to make him leave. “Go home. Seriously, wherever that may be, go there, go get snowed in there.”
“I’d rather get snowed in here.”
I stare at him, and all he does is stare back, perfectly comfortable holding my gaze like he has all the time in the world and none of it is being wasted.
“You’re a complete stranger. You know that, right? You’re a stranger, and it… dude, you don’t know me.”
“I know.” He tilts his head slightly, and something in his expression changes, not quite a smile, but not quite something else. “Give me the storm; I’ll only be here for maybe a day or two.”
“No.” My voice waives, and I have to shift my weight, trying to pretend that I’m not questioning myself.
“Hopefully four or five.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Let me show you who I am, Esperr. Give me the storm to show you the kind of person I am. Let me prove it to you that you can trust me.”
He says my name like he’s always known it, like it fits in his mouth easily. I hate that it doesn’t bother me as much as it should.
Hell, I should close the door, and every rational part of me is drafting the words—no, go home, I don’t know you, this is insane—yet none of them make it past my lips.
But the snow was already getting bad, and I can’t imagine him driving in those conditions. And I don’t have to think about it hard; it doesn’t take me long to convince myself that I want him here.
So while the hurt part of my brain screams at me to shut the door in his face, I don’t. Instead, I step out of the way.
“You’ll sleep on the couch,” I hear myself saying.
Something moves across his face, but it’s gone before I can fully grasp it. And before I know it, he’s stepping through the door, just like he’s stepping into my world without even knowing who I am.