Chapter 2 Shelter from the Rain #2
Now he somehow looked even younger.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Open.
Honest.
The kind of person who still believed the world was mostly good.
I remembered being that age.
Barely.
"Sandwich okay?" I asked.
"That sounds great."
Great.
A sandwich.
The standards were apparently low.
I prepared two plates while Elliot remained seated nearby.
The apartment felt different with another person inside.
Less empty.
The realization annoyed me immediately.
I lived alone for a reason.
It was quieter.
Safer.
Less complicated.
The last thing I needed was getting used to company.
Especially temporary company.
The storm continued outside while we ate.
Rain tapped against the windows.
Thunder rolled through the distance.
The atmosphere should have felt awkward.
Instead, conversation came surprisingly easily.
Maybe because Elliot asked questions.
Lots of questions.
The kind people usually avoided asking me.
"Do all your tattoos mean something?"
I looked up from my sandwich.
There it was.
The question everyone eventually asked.
Usually within ten minutes.
Sometimes less.
"Most of them."
His eyes immediately brightened.
Curiosity.
Genuine curiosity.
Not judgment.
Not fear.
Just interest.
It felt strangely refreshing.
"Can I ask about them?"
I shrugged.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether I'm answering."
That earned a laugh.
A real one.
Soft and warm.
The sound lingered longer than it should have.
Elliot leaned forward slightly.
"What was your first tattoo?"
I looked down at my left forearm.
A faded black design partially hidden beneath newer work.
The oldest piece I owned.
The first mistake.
Or maybe the first memory.
Hard to tell.
"I got it when I was eighteen."
"Did it hurt?"
I snorted.
"Of course it hurt."
He smiled.
"I've never gotten one."
Somehow that wasn't surprising.
"You planning to?"
He thought about it.
"Maybe someday."
I tried imagining Elliot covered in tattoos.
The image didn't fit.
Then again, neither did a lot of things about him.
He looked soft.
Gentle.
Like someone who belonged in libraries instead of motorcycle garages.
Yet he'd climbed onto the back of my bike without running away screaming.
Points for bravery.
Or questionable judgment.
Possibly both.
"What about this one?"
He pointed toward the ink disappearing beneath my sleeve.
Most people stared.
Elliot asked.
There was a difference.
I glanced at the tattoo.
A raven.
One of my oldest pieces.
The memory attached to it wasn't pleasant.
"Got that after someone died."
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Elliot's expression softened.
No pity.
Just understanding.
That surprised me.
Most people immediately looked uncomfortable when conversations turned serious.
Elliot didn't.
Maybe because he spent his life paying attention to stories.
Writers were like that.
Always searching for the pieces beneath the surface.
"Someone important?" he asked quietly.
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Yeah."
Normally that would've ended the conversation.
Most people understood boundaries.
Elliot seemed more interested in understanding them.
Not crossing them.
Understanding them.
Another difference.
The kid had a strange talent for making questions feel harmless.
Dangerous talent.
I changed the subject.
"You're a literature major?"
His face immediately lit up.
There it was again.
That enthusiasm.
The kind that couldn't be faked.
"Creative writing."
"That's a real degree?"
He gasped dramatically.
"I'm being judged."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"You write books?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard.
A brief hesitation appeared.
Interesting.
Then he nodded.
"A little."
A little.
That sounded like the world's biggest understatement.
The notebook he'd carried all night practically screamed writer.
So did the way he observed everything around him.
The way his eyes lingered.
The way he listened.
The way he seemed to turn ordinary moments into something meaningful.
Definitely a writer.
Probably a good one.
Though I wasn't sure why I thought that.
"Published?"
His smile faded slightly.
"No."
Something painful flashed across his expression.
Insecurity.
Disappointment.
I recognized both.
"You'll get there."
The words left my mouth automatically.
Elliot blinked.
Apparently encouragement wasn't what he'd expected.
Honestly, I hadn't expected it either.
"Maybe."
"You keep writing?"
"Yeah."
"Then you'll get there."
Simple.
Not guaranteed.
But simple.
The kid looked at me for several seconds.
Like he was trying to figure something out.
Then he smiled again.
Smaller this time.
More genuine.
"Thanks."
The conversation drifted after that.
Easier.
Lighter.
He asked about motorcycles.
The garage.
Restorations.
Road trips.
I found myself answering.
More than I normally would.
Far more.
At some point I stopped paying attention to the clock.
Stopped noticing the storm.
Stopped wondering why I was sharing stories I'd spent years avoiding.
A trip through Colorado.
A motorcycle rally in Arizona.
The first bike I'd ever rebuilt.
Memories surfaced one after another.
Some good.
Some painful.
All real.
Elliot listened to every word.
Not politely.
Not because he felt obligated.
Because he genuinely cared.
The realization caught me off guard.
Most people saw tattoos and made assumptions.
Elliot saw a person.
That was dangerous.
Far more dangerous than attraction.
Eventually exhaustion caught up with him.
I noticed the moment his eyes started drooping.
The kid was barely staying awake.
"Come on."
He blinked.
"Huh?"
"Bed."
His face immediately turned bright red.
I stared.
Then realized what I'd said.
Jesus Christ.
"The spare room."
His blush somehow deepened.
Fantastic.
Now we were both uncomfortable.
I pointed toward the hallway.
"Second door."
Elliot stood quickly.
Possibly to escape.
Probably smart.
"Goodnight."
"Night."
He disappeared down the hall carrying his backpack.
A few minutes later, silence returned.
I cleaned the kitchen.
Locked the doors.
Checked the windows.
Routine.
Normal.
Yet my thoughts kept drifting toward the guest room.
Toward the strange college student sleeping under my roof.
Toward the way he'd looked at me while I talked.
Like my stories mattered.
Like I mattered.
I didn't like how much I enjoyed that feeling.
Before heading to bed, I passed the guest room.
Light glowed beneath the door.
Still awake.
Curious despite myself, I glanced through the partially open doorway.
Elliot sat cross-legged on the bed.
Notebook balanced on his lap.
Pen moving quickly across the page.
Completely focused.
A small smile rested on his face.
The expression looked peaceful.
Happy.
Whatever he was writing, he clearly loved it.
For some reason, that made me smile.
Just slightly.
Then I shook my head and continued toward my own room.
The kid could write whatever stories he wanted.
As long as he got some sleep eventually.
Tomorrow we'd deal with his car.
Tomorrow he'd probably head home.
And everything would return to normal.
At least, that was what I told myself as I closed my bedroom door.
Neither of us had any idea how wrong I was.
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