Chapter 10
Vance
The morning after the blackout, I left before Tobias woke up.
I told myself I needed to get to work early to check the systems after the power outage and ensure nothing was compromised.
All true. All excuses.
The real reason was simpler: I couldn't face him.
I couldn't look at him across the breakfast table and pretend I hadn't almost kissed him last night.
I couldn't sit on that couch and not think about the way his hand felt in mine, the way I'd looked at his mouth and wanted to taste it, the way I'd wanted—
No. Distance. Distance was the answer.
I left a note on the kitchen counter: Early shift. Back late. Don't wait up.
Cowardly. I knew it was cowardly. But I did it anyway.
He texted me at noon. The burner phone buzzed in my pocket while I reviewed security footage.
Made too much soup. Saving you some.
I stared at the message for a long time, typed and deleted three different responses, and finally sent: Thanks.
He replied immediately: What time will you be home?
Late. Don't wait up.
A pause. Then: Okay. Be safe.
I put the phone away and tried to focus on work. I failed completely.
When I got home that night, the apartment smelled like garlic and herbs. Tobias was on the couch, reading, but he looked up the moment the door opened. His face lit up—actually lit up, as if seeing me was the best part of his day.
"There's soup on the stove," he said. "I can heat it up for you."
"I ate at the hotel."
The light dimmed. Just slightly, but I saw it.
"Oh. Okay." He turned back to his book. "I'll put it in the fridge. For tomorrow, maybe."
I should sit down, talk to him, acknowledge that something had shifted between us, and figure out what to do about it.
Instead, I went to the bathroom and took a long shower. When I came out, he was still on the couch, but he had stopped pretending to read. He was just sitting there, staring at the wall.
"You okay?"
"Fine." He didn't look at me. "Just tired."
The silence stretched between us. I wanted to cross the room, sit beside him, and pick up where we'd left off last night. But that was exactly the problem. I wanted it too much.
"Good night," I said.
"Good night."
I lay on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and listened to the sound of him getting ready for bed: the bathroom door, water running, the soft click of the bedroom door closing.
The distance between us had never felt so vast.
The pattern started to set in after that.
I'd leave early—not as early as that first morning, but before he was fully awake. He'd be in the kitchen making coffee when I left, and I'd grab my jacket and mumble something about a busy day. He'd nod, smile, and tell me to have a good shift.
Every morning, he'd have something ready: coffee in a travel mug, toast wrapped in a napkin. Once, a warm scrambled egg sandwich that I bit into at the hotel.
I'd take these offerings and leave without sitting down, without looking at him too long, without letting myself want.
And every evening, I'd come home to find dinner waiting.
He never stopped trying. No matter how many times I deflected, how many meals I claimed to have eaten at the hotel, how many conversations I cut short—he kept trying.
Risotto he'd practiced all afternoon. Roasted chicken with vegetables arranged like a restaurant plate. Pasta with homemade sauce because he'd found a recipe online and wanted to see if he could do it.
"You don't have to cook for me," I told him one night, standing in the kitchen doorway while he stirred something that smelled incredible.
"I know." He didn't look up. "I like cooking."
"You never cooked before you came here."
"I never had anyone to cook for."
The words landed in my chest and stayed there.
He started leaving things for me to find.
Not gifts—he couldn't buy anything without using my money, and he seemed to understand that would cross a line. But small, thoughtful things.
My books, reorganized by author instead of the chaotic pile they had been. He'd clearly sorted them, probably read the back covers of each one.
A sketch left on the coffee table. Just a simple drawing on a sheet torn from the legal pad: the rooftop across the street, the way the chimney intersected with the sky. He hadn't signed it or mentioned it. Just left it for me to find.
My shirts in the closet, ironed and hung in order. When had he learned to iron? Had he watched a tutorial, the same way he'd learned to cook?
Each small gesture was an offering. A way of saying I'm still here. I still want to be here. Please let me stay.
And each time I pretended not to notice, something in his expression dimmed a little more.
I caught him waiting up for me once.
It was later than usual—past eleven, because I'd volunteered for overtime I didn't need. When I opened the door, the living room was dark except for a single lamp. Tobias was on the couch, book open in his lap, but his eyes were closed. He'd fallen asleep waiting.
I stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way the lamplight caught his hair, the soft, unguarded expression on his face.
He looked younger while he slept. Vulnerable. Like the weight of everything he carried finally got to set down.
I should wake him. Send him to bed. Maintain the distance I'd been so carefully keeping.
Instead, I found a blanket and draped it over him. My hand brushed his shoulder, just barely, and he stirred.
"Vance?"
"Go back to sleep."
"What time is it?"
"Late. You should be in bed."
He blinked up at me, still half-asleep, and for a moment, the walls between us dissolved. He looked at me the way he had during the blackout—like I was something worth wanting, something worth waiting for.
"I wanted to see you," he said softly. "You've been gone so much."
"I know. Work's been—"
"It's not work." He sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. "You're avoiding me."
The accusation hung in the air. True. Undeniable.
"I'm not—"
"You are. And I don't understand why." His voice was quiet, but something raw lay underneath. "Did I do something wrong? That night during the storm—did I say or do something—"
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why won't you look at me anymore?"
I didn't have an answer. Not one I could give him.
"Go to bed, Tobias."
I turned away before I could see his expression. I went to the bathroom and stayed there until I heard the bedroom door close.
When I came out, the sketch was gone from the coffee table. He'd taken it back.
After that, things got worse.
He still cooked, but the meals became simpler. Eggs and toast instead of elaborate dinners. Quick things that didn't require hours of effort, things that wouldn't hurt as much if I refused to eat them.
He stopped leaving sketches. Stopped reorganizing my things. Stopped waiting up.
The apartment was clean, quiet, and felt like a tomb.
We moved around each other like strangers. Brief words in the morning, briefer words at night. The careful choreography of two people trying not to collide.
I'd done this. I'd taken his warmth, hope, and stubborn, persistent care, and pushed it all away until he finally got the message.
Good, I told myself. This is better. This is safer.
It didn't feel better. It felt like watching something precious break, piece by piece.
I came home one evening to find him in the bedroom, folding clothes.
My clothes. The ones I'd lent him. Stacking them neatly on the bed in careful piles, sorted by type—shirts here, sweatpants there, socks paired and rolled.
"What are you doing?"
He didn't look up. "Organizing."
"Those are my clothes."
"I know. I've been borrowing them." His hands kept moving, folding a t-shirt with the same precision he brought to everything. "I thought I should give them back."
Something cold settled in my stomach. "Why?"
"Because I've been here too long." He smoothed a crease from a sleeve. "I've been taking advantage of your kindness, and I should figure out what comes next. Find a job. A room to rent. Something."
"You don't have to—"
"I do." He finally looked at me, his eyes flat and guarded, nothing like the warmth I'd grown used to. "You've made it clear you don't want me here. I'm not going to keep forcing myself on someone who can barely stand to be in the same room with me."
"That's not what's happening."
"Isn't it?" He set down the shirt. "You leave before I wake up. You come home after I've given up waiting. You won't eat the food I make. You won't talk to me. You flinch every time I get too close."
Each accusation landed like a blow. True. All of it true.
"I've spent days trying to figure out what I did wrong." His voice cracked slightly. "Trying to fix it. Trying to be less needy, less present, less everything. But nothing works. You still look at me like I'm a problem you don't know how to solve."
"Tobias—"
"I'm not stupid. I know when I'm not wanted."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Not wanted. If only he knew how much I wanted him, how hard I'd been fighting against it, how every moment of distance had been an act of self-preservation disguised as kindness.
He turned back to the clothes, folding them mechanically, like he'd retreated to a place I couldn't reach.
I stood in the doorway and watched him pack away the evidence of our time together—my shirt, my sweatpants, the Army t-shirt he'd worn that first morning. Each item folded and stacked, neat and precise, as if he were erasing himself from my life.
I should say something. Should tell him the truth. Should cross the room, take those clothes from his hands, and explain that I wasn't pushing him away because I didn't want him. I was pushing him away because I wanted him too much.
But the words stuck in my throat. The fear was too strong.
So I stood there, frozen, and watched him fold another shirt.
And hated myself more than I'd ever hated anything.