I’m genuinely on the verge of crying over beans. I do not deserve this espresso-based affection. He could have ignored me. He could have mailed me Folgers. But no. He brought pleasure into my kitchen like a goddamn alpha.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Don’t thank me. Just drink it and tell me if it’s good.”
It’s good. It’s so good I moan on the first sip.
His eyes drop to my mouth when I moan. Just for a second. Fast. Controlled. But I catch it.
Of course I catch it.
I notice everything.
And now I know one more thing about Saul Bennett:
He listens when I make sounds.
Day five, a plant.
Small. Green. Stubborn-looking. The kind of plant that survives neglect, emotional abandonment, and probably mild arson.
“The apartment needs something alive in it,” he says. “Besides you.”
Sir. You cannot just casually imply I’m alive and expect me not to spiral erotically.
I take the little pot. Cradle it in my hands. He’s handed me responsibility, hope, and possibly a shared custody arrangement.
“I had a plant,” I say quietly. “In my real apartment. On the windowsill.”
The wordsreal apartmenttaste weird. Like they belong to someone else. Like Stevie Reeves said them once and Beth Taylor is borrowing her mouth.
I don’t say: it’s probably dead now.
I don’t say: I wonder if anyone watered it.
I don’t say: everything I used to have is gone and this tiny succulent is making me want to sob.
Saul doesn’t make me say any of it. He just nods, like he understands all the words caught in my throat.
“This one’s hard to kill,” he says. “Even if you forget to water it. It’ll wait for you.”
I almost laugh. I almost cry.
I almost climb him like a jungle gym and tell him I would also wait for him if he asked.
Day five, he teaches me the security system, which is deeply unfair because I already feel emotionally compromised and now he’s brushing against my hormonal aura.
“Arm it before bed,” he says, standing beside me at the panel. “Disarm in the morning. It’s simple, but you need to be consistent.”
He’s explaining the keypad. I’m not absorbing a single word because his arm moves and my brain hits a horny firewall.
I’m too aware of how close he’s standing. Close enough that his shoulder brushes mine and my nervous system files a missing persons report for my dignity. Close enough that I can smell him. Not cologne, just him, soap and skin and something that my brain wants to categorize and keep.
“You enter the code here,” he’s saying. “Then press arm.”
His arm isright there.I could bite it. I would apologize. Eventually.
“Got it,” I say, stepping back before I do something stupid like lean into him. “Arm before bed. Disarm in the morning.”
