Chapter 5
The Spare Room
Sage
I try to sound casual when I say, “So, this is the layout,” but even to my own ears, it’s tight—clipped around the edges.
Leo follows me through the narrow hallway, too tall for my apartment, ducking slightly under the archway like the place wasn’t built for his frame. He moves with that quiet, economical control I’ve started to recognize—like he’s always half a breath from sprinting onto the ice.
I gesture toward the second bedroom. “Technically, this is the spare room.”
Technically being the key word.
He steps inside, and the silence stretches. My catering studio glints under the overhead light—sheet pans stacked on chrome racks, bins of flour and spices, two induction burners, a food processor that cost more than my car. Every inch is spoken for.
Leo lets out a low whistle. “This isn’t a room,” he says finally. “It’s a command center.”
“Exactly,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “It’s my business. My livelihood. My sanity.”
He glances over his shoulder, brow furrowing. “You work out of here full-time?”
“Yup.” I cross my arms. “If I’m not at élan, I’m here testing recipes or prepping orders.”
He nods slowly, eyes scanning the labeled containers, the stainless steel tables, the handwritten menus taped to the wall. “You could fit a bed in here.”
I snap my gaze up. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, casual in a way that makes my skin prickle. “Just saying—it’s a big space. I could buy a small bed, tuck it against that wall. Wouldn’t mess with your setup.”
“You’re not sleeping in my studio.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t soften them.
He blinks, clearly caught off guard by the steel in my voice. “I didn’t mean—”
“You’re already taking the couch,” I cut in. “This room is off-limits.”
He holds up both hands in surrender. “Alright. Just trying to make things easier.”
I pause, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to feel the weight of what I’m about to say. “Buying your way into comfort doesn’t make things easier for everyone.”
The words hang there, heavier than I expect. His jaw tightens, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then he nods once, short and restrained. “Got it.”
I exhale, but it doesn’t feel like relief. More like something trapped, clawing to get out.
He backs out of the doorway, and I stay rooted in place, surrounded by the hum of my machines, the faint citrus scent of cleaning spray. My space. My rules.
I tell myself I’m protecting what I built. That’s true. But the flicker of guilt that crawls under my ribs whispers something else—that I’m reacting to the wrong man for the right reason.
When I glance toward the hall, Leo’s already gone, footsteps fading toward the kitchen. I stare after him, the tension still crackling in the air.
“Boundaries,” I mutter under my breath, voice rougher than I’d like, my shoulders tight as if the word itself could prop me upright. Saying it out loud might make them hold.
By the next morning, the tension feels baked into the air. Leo’s up early again, moving quietly through the kitchen. I can hear the faint creak of the couch as he stretches, the soft clink of his mug against the counter. He’s not loud—he’s never loud—but somehow I feel every movement.
When I step out, hair still damp from my shower, he looks like a man running on fumes. Shoulders stiff, jaw tight, a faint wince when he rolls one arm. The couch hasn’t been kind.
“Rough night?” I ask, trying to sound neutral.
He glances over. “Fine.”
“Fine,” I echo. “You sound like you wrestled the couch cushions and lost.”
One corner of his mouth quirks. “Could use a little more support. I’m not twenty anymore.”
That flicker of guilt tightens my chest, my breath catching as my fingers fidget against the edge of the counter from yesterday twists in my chest. I shove it down. “You could’ve told me you were uncomfortable.”
“I’m not here to make work for you.”
“That’s not the point.” I step closer before I can stop myself. “Sit. I’ll fix the cushions.”
He raises an eyebrow but obeys, settling onto the couch with the cautious stiffness of a man twice his age. I tug and fluff until the fabric looks more forgiving, then hand him a pillow from my bed.
“Better?”
He tests it, then nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The quiet that follows is… different. Softer, almost. His sleeve brushes mine when he reaches for the mug, fabric warm against my skin, and the awareness that he’s right there hums through me. Softer, almost. The way his voice roughens on thanks does something traitorous to my pulse.
I move to the counter, desperate for a distraction. “Turmeric tea helps with soreness. I’ve got ginger too.”
“I’ll live,” he says.
“I didn’t ask.” I fill the kettle, pour boiling water over the herbs, and slide the mug toward him. “Drink.”
He eyes it suspiciously, then takes a sip. “Tastes like dirt.”
“Expensive dirt,” I say, fighting a grin. “You’re welcome.”
His shoulders relax a little, and for a second, we’re almost easy again—until he says, “You’re stubborn, you know that?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t let anyone help,” he says, each word clipped, deliberate. The rhythm sharpens the air between us. “You guard that studio like a dragon.”
I stiffen, the warmth evaporating. “That studio is my life. I built it from scratch. Nobody handed me a team or a paycheck to chase my dream.”
His eyes narrow. “You think money solves everything for me?”
“If the shoe fits,” I bite back. “You literally tried to buy a bed to fix an inconvenience.”
He stands, slow and deliberate, mug still in hand. “I was trying to be practical, not entitled.”
“Same difference when you’re used to the world rearranging for you,” I fire back, heart pounding.
We stare at each other, the space between us tight and charged again. His chest rises, falls, steady, while mine feels like a runaway metronome.
Then his voice drops—low, even. “You really think I’ve never had to fight for anything?" The words land like a punch. Heat climbs my throat, shame and something sharper tangling until I can’t tell which one stings more.
The quiet that follows is heavy enough to bruise. I open my mouth, then close it. No answer feels right.
Finally, he sets the mug down. “Thanks for the tea.”
And just like that, he walks out, leaving the faint smell of turmeric and something unspoken behind.
By dinner, the day’s rough edges have smoothed into a wary kind of truce. Leo sits at the table scrolling through his phone while I plate his meal—citrus quinoa, garlicky greens, and salmon rich in magnesium. It’s my version of an apology: quiet, edible, not labeled as one.
He looks up when I set the plate down. “You didn’t have to cook for me tonight.”
“I cook because it’s what I do,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
The corner of his mouth tugs. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We eat in silence at first. The rhythmic scrape of forks fills the space between us. Then my phone buzzes beside my plate, lighting up with Maya’s name and a text preview: Guess your neighbor’s famous. Imagine the rent you could charge .
Leo glances at the screen before I can flip it over. “Friend of yours?”
“Coworker,” I answer quickly. “She likes to stir.”
He hums, noncommittal, but I can feel his eyes on me even after I swipe the message away. The heat creeps up my neck. “You’re all over the sports blogs, by the way,” I add, forcing casualness. “Apparently your penthouse disaster is national news.”
His expression darkens. “They don’t have anything better to write about.”
“Clickbait doesn’t need better,” I mutter. “It just needs attention.”
He doesn’t reply, and for a moment, I almost regret mentioning it. The air tightens again—until I notice the way his fork pauses midair, his gaze flicking toward my phone when it buzzes again.
The contact name flashes across the screen. My stomach knots, a cold pulse rolling through me as I stare at it for half a second too long before forcing myself to look away. Asshole.
My pulse trips. I fumble for the phone, flipping it face-down. “Spam,” I say too fast.
Leo’s brow furrows. “Spam that knows your name?”
I force a laugh, brittle at the edges. “Persistent spam.”
He studies me for a beat too long, like he can tell I’m lying. But then he leans back in his chair, letting it go. “You should get that number blocked.”
“I’m working on it.” The words feel heavy on my tongue.
We finish the meal in silence. When he stands to clear his plate, I tell him to leave it. He hesitates, then obeys.
After he disappears down the hall, I exhale and reach for the phone. My reflection stares back from the black screen, pale and strained.
I tell myself it’s fine. That it’s nothing.
But when the phone lights up again—Asshole calling—my hand shakes hard enough that I almost drop it.
I hit silence and press my palm flat to the counter, forcing air into my lungs until the buzzing stops.
Through the thin wall, I can hear Leo moving around—the steady thud of his footsteps grounding me even as fear snakes up my spine. The contrast shouldn’t make sense: comfort wrapped around the edges of panic.
It’s ridiculous, but for the first time in months, the sound of someone else’s presence feels like protection.