2 #3
He finished filling his glass, drank half of it in one go, and set it down on the counter between us. Then he stayed there. Not blocking me exactly. Just occupying the space in a way that made the kitchen feel narrower than it was.
I filled my own glass and left without looking at him again.
In the bedroom I sat on the edge of the bed and drank the water too fast.
It sat cold in my stomach. Outside the window the sky had turned the flat, washed-out blue of late Miami afternoon.
Somewhere below, a scooter whined past and faded.
I could still feel the exact place on my forearm where it had touched him.
I told myself I was overreacting. Proximity in a small apartment. Nothing more. Two people sharing limited square footage in weather that made everyone irritable. That was all.
The rationalization lasted until I went back out for my phone charger and found him standing in the hallway outside the bathroom, still shirtless, drying his hands on a towel.
He didn’t move when I approached. I had to turn sideways to pass.
My shoulder came within an inch of his chest.
I caught the clean-sweat scent of him again, layered now with whatever soap he used.
He didn’t say anything.
I grabbed the charger from the outlet near the couch and retreated.
By the time the light outside shifted toward evening the pattern was clear.
He wasn’t doing anything overt. No comments.
No deliberate touches. Just a series of small occupations of space that kept landing too close.
When I went to the refrigerator he was already there reaching for something on the top shelf.
When I sat on the couch to try working again he settled at the opposite end, sketchbook open, knees angled in a way that left less room than necessary.
Every time I stood up he seemed to be moving through the same doorway a second later.
The silence made it worse. If he had spoken, if he had made some joke or even a sharp remark, I could have pushed back against something solid. Instead there was only the quiet scratch of pencil on paper and the occasional soft sound of him shifting position.
I lasted until just after dark.
I was standing at the kitchen counter trying to force down a piece of toast I didn’t want when he came in for water again.
This time he stopped directly behind me to reach for a glass in the cabinet above my head.
His chest almost touched my back. I felt the heat of him through the thin cotton of my T-shirt.
I turned around fast.
“Stop.”
The word came out sharper than I intended. He didn’t step back immediately. He just looked down at me, one eyebrow slightly raised, glass still in his hand.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever this is. The standing too close. The walking past every time I move. Just—stop.”
He set the glass down on the counter without filling it. For a moment the only sound was the weak rattle of the air conditioner and the distant bass of someone else’s music through the floor.
Then he asked, voice low and almost conversational, “What are you afraid of?”
The question landed harder than a raised voice would have.
I felt my face heat. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“No?”
“I’m not gay.” The words came out flat, defensive, too loud for the small kitchen. “If that’s what this is about. I’m not. So whatever you think you’re doing, you can quit it.”
Ryder studied me for a long few seconds. His expression didn’t change much. If anything it grew quieter, more focused. The kind of look he gave the sketchbook when something on the page wasn’t resolving the way he wanted.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t laugh.
He simply said, “Then stop looking at me like that.”
The sentence was soft. Almost gentle. It hit harder than anything else he could have chosen.
I opened my mouth and nothing came out.
He held the eye contact another beat, then reached past me for the glass, filled it from the filtered pitcher, and walked back to the couch. The sketchbook opened again. The pencil started moving like the conversation had been a minor interruption instead of a detonation.
I stayed in the kitchen until my pulse slowed.
When I finally crossed the living room to the bedroom I felt his attention follow me the entire way. Not the obvious kind. The quiet kind. The kind that had probably been there longer than I wanted to admit.
I closed the door all the way this time and sat on the bed in the dark.
The words kept replaying.
What are you afraid of?
Then stop looking at me like that.
I had told myself the glances were accidental.
The way my eyes found the line of his shoulders when he moved through a room.
The way I tracked the shift of the tattoo when he leaned forward over the sketchbook.
I had filed all of it under proximity and heat and the simple fact that there was another body in a small space.
But he had noticed.
He had been noticing.
I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling fan.
It turned in the same useless circles as before.
The sheets felt too warm against my bare legs.
Outside, Miami kept making its night noises—scooters, distant bass, the occasional shout from the street.
Inside, the apartment was quiet except for the occasional soft sound of pencil on paper from the other room.
I tried to sleep.
My mind refused.