Saul organizes. I emotionally spiral, but with throw pillows.
He disappears for an hour and returns with groceries, cleaning supplies, and a throw blanket that looks like it was handwoven by forest nymphs with seasonal depression.
“The beige was killing my will to live,” he says, tossing it over the couch like a dramatic interior decorator with unresolved feelings.
I think about the teal blanket from Beth Taylor’s greatest hits collection. Still folded like a relic in the bottom of my bag, next to Dario’s pen and all my unprocessed emotional baggage.
“You have a thing about blankets,” I say. “You nesting? You wanna talk about it? Because between this and the groceries, we’re one Yankee Candle away from domestic.”
“I have a thing about you being comfortable.”
God. He says it so casually, like he didn’t just commit a war crime on my heart. The words hit me like a weighted blanket made of feelings I don’t know how to fold.
I dig out the teal blanket. Add it to the couch, layered with the green one. Two colors clashing. My old life and new one trying to coexist without throwing punches.
“There,” I say. “Look at us. A whole throw-blanket montage away from a Hallmark plotline. The couch looks like it has emotional depth now. Or a Pinterest board.”
Saul looks at the blankets. Then at me.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Now it’s home.”
That night, I fail spectacularly at sleeping. Olympic-level insomniac. Gold medal in Overthinking While Hugging Stolen Property.
Saul’s on the couch because he’s a gentleman and a menace.
The kind of man who insists I take the bed with that calm U.S. Marshal tone that makes me feel like arguing would be disrespecting the flag.
I can hear him through the paper-thin wall, breathing like a responsible adult with a moral code and probably a savings account.
He keeps shifting. Restless. He’s not sleeping either. Probably also emotionally spooning his regrets.
I stare at the ceiling like it has answers. It does not.
Just cracks and one stain that looks like it judges me for my internal monologue.
Dario, who left his door unlocked for me. Who handed me a shirt and affogato like I was someone worth having soft things.
Who said he was glad I had Enzo, and somehow didn’t sound like he wanted to murder anyone about it.
Enzo. Who came back every day like he had nowhere better to be. Who had a mug in my kitchen, had because I’m a romantic thief.
Who loved me like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing either of us had ever done. Fair. It was.
And Saul.
Who showed up at the start and never stopped showing up. Baking supplies. Pillows. Plants. A literal bakery.
A man who said “no more beige” and meant it with his whole chest.
He’s on my couch.
Which sounds like the setup to a rom-com but ends with heartbreak and no sex scene.
He’s here for one more week. Then he vanishes like a hot, emotionally available ghost.
Three men. Three different versions of being seen.
And I can’t have any of them.
