Page 9 of Holiday Interference
He nods once. Then turns toward the hallway.
“My room’s down there,” he says. “I just moved in, so there’s only one bed. You can take it.”
I blink.
He pauses, then adds, “I’ll take the couch.”
But the way he says it?
Like he knows it might not be that simple.
And that I’m already thinking the same thing.
CHAPTER THREE
Cal
The apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
I lean against the counter, water glass in hand, thumb skating condensation up the sides.
Somewhere down the hall, the bathroom fan hums low. That’s it. No TV. No music. Just the whisper of snow still falling outside the windows, soft and slow like the night forgot how to end.
The walk back from The Pit shouldn’t have stuck with me as much as it did. But the sound of her shoes crunching alongside mine won’t leave my ears.
Neither will the way she looked when I found her outside—chest rising, eyes guarded, wrapped in that long coat like armor.
I shouldn’t have offered.
But what else was I going to do? She couldn’t drive home in this mess.
Not to mention, she just…looked tired. Tired in that way you feel in your bones.
And I knew what that felt like.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck, muscles still tight from the cold. The heat kicks on with a click and a low groan, blowing warm air through the room. I barely notice.
All I can think about is the sound of her voice when she saidlead the way.
No hesitation. Just…trust.
Even though I’ve only known her a couple of months through the Vipers organization, I get the feeling getting trust from someone like her?
That’s something.
She hasn’t said a word since she walked into the bathroom, but already, this place feels full. Like her presence reshaped the air. Like the walls are holding their breath, waiting to see what comes next.
I glance toward the hallway, where the light under the bathroom door still glows soft and gold. Something about knowing she’s here—in my space, barefoot, probably in my shirt—sits low in my chest. Heavy and hot.
Not bad.
Just…unfamiliar.
I don’t bring people here. Not often. Not unless I have to.
This apartment was supposed to be a clean start. Close to the arena. Quiet. Neutral. The kind of place where nothing sticks.
