The elevator had gold mirrors, and I could see us both in them.
Him in a suit worth my rent. Me with flour on my jeans and a wrist going purple.
Barrett: Say it now if you want out.
The doors opened on a room the size of my whole apartment building.
Glass on one side, city lights stacked like a birthday cake.
Lacey: This is where you live?
Barrett: This is where we live. For now.
Barrett: Rules.
Barrett: Separate rooms. No surprises in public. You show up when I need you.
Lacey: Wow. Romance really is dead.
Barrett: You keep your own money. I keep my own problems.
Barrett: Nothing about us leaves this building unless I say so.
Lacey: And if I break a rule?
Barrett: I already told you what happens. I don't repeat myself.
He walked me down a hall where the lights came on as we passed.
Barrett: This is yours.
The door opened on a suite with a bed the size of a small boat.
Fresh sheets. A robe folded on the chair. White flowers that had not been there an hour ago.
Lacey: Did you have someone do this tonight?
Barrett: I made a call in the car.
Lacey: Am I a guest or a prisoner?
Barrett: Guest. I don't lock doors, Lacey.
I believed him. That scared me more than a lock would have.
He looked down at my hand on the door and stopped talking.
Barrett: Your wrist.
Lacey: It's fine.
Barrett: It's not.
He came back with a white kit and set it on the counter.
Barrett: May I?
He asked. Gavin never asked me anything in two years.
His fingers were warm and careful. I flinched anyway.
He let go right away and held both hands up where I could see them.
Barrett: Too close?
Lacey: No. It's just, nobody's touched me that gently in a while.
He didn't say sorry. He just kept working, slow, like I was something that could break.
Lacey: Gavin never asked.
Barrett: Gavin isn't here.
Barrett: What do you need?
Lacey: What?
Barrett: You heard me. Not the contract. What do you need.
I thought about saying something easy. A car. A dress. A phone without a cracked screen.
Then I said the true thing and braced for him to laugh.
Lacey: My kitchen. My jars. My name on the lid, and nobody taking it off.
He went still. Not angry. Something else.
Like I had set a plate in front of him that he never ordered.
Barrett: That's all?
Lacey: That's everything.
I had nothing left to lose, so I asked him the same question.
Lacey: What do you need, Barrett?
The room got quiet. I could hear the fridge humming.
Barrett: Nobody's asked me that in a long time.
Lacey: Answer it.
Barrett: No.
It wasn't mean. It sounded like a door closing from the inside.
He handed me the kit and told me to keep it.
Barrett: Sleep. Tomorrow we start.
Then he was gone down the hall, and I stood there holding tape and gauze like a housewarming gift.
I lay on the huge bed with my shoes still on and the kit beside me.
For the first time in two years, nobody in the next room was angry at me.
His kindness felt like a soft door with a hard lock. I couldn't tell which side I was on.