"When I was a kid, my mother would cup a hot mug in both hands just like this. She always said tea was a way to calm your hands before your heart."
Matthew retreated a few steps, giving me space. "Your mother was a wise woman."
I'd spent years in crowded safehouses and compressed surveillance vans, my body pressed against strangers by necessity rather than choice. I'd given up the concept of personal space long ago.
The tea tasted of bergamot and honey—Earl Grey with something added to soothe the throat. I cradled the mug between both hands. The remaining warmth seeped into my fingers, up my wrists, and spread comfort across my chest.
Matthew moved to the window, glancing out and then looking back at me. His posture remained relaxed. No tension or impatience. Only quiet presence.
He didn't say anything as I sipped the tea. I tracked his movement while he padded barefoot across the hardwood floor.
He walked to the kitchen without looking back, turning on the faucet. I heard him rinsing his hands, mixed with the faint clinking of metal, as he cleaned the first aid supplies.
From the couch, I had a clear view of his space. Sparse, but not sterile. A floor lamp cast warm amber light, and an old TV rested on stacked crates—no obvious weapons.
Three mugs sat on the drain board—plain, functional, one stamped with a Seattle Fire Department logo. The fridge was covered in reminders and takeout magnets, mostly Asian cuisine.
Only one photo was visible—four men on a beach, squinting into the sun, all grinning. Matthew was one of them, younger, clean-shaven. The others looked like they could carry a couch without help.
What stood out more was the absence: no couple photos. No partner's belongings.
There was no edge to Matthew's movements. He rinsed a pair of tweezers, dried them, and set them in a drawer that he closed with a soft click.
There's nothing more disorienting than a man who doesn't try to fill the quiet with dominance or small talk. Nothing more dangerous than someone who doesn't need to explain themselves.
When he returned, he didn't reclaim the chair. He stood near the coffee table and looked down at me. "You don't have to stay long, but if you want to rest, this is a place where you can do that."
I looked down at the tea mug cupped in my hands. Rest. That word no longer existed in my vocabulary.
I'd been trained to read people—identify micro-expressions and behavioral patterns, allowing me to predict actions. Matthew defied easy categorization. I couldn't read an agenda in his simple kindness.
I knew how to fight threats and outmaneuver pursuers. Conditioning gave me the tools to withstand pain and overcome fear.
This situation was different. I had no defense against someone who looked at my broken edges and didn't immediately calculate their usefulness.
I sipped the tea, letting the warmth fill my chest. For the first time in years, I was utterly unprepared for what might come next.
Chapter five
Matthew
The tea kettle's whistle pierced the quiet in my apartment. I killed the heat before the sound could jar Dorian awake. It was the second morning after his arrival turned my world upside down.
My ancient Frigidaire grumbled behind me while I poured the steaming water into waiting mugs with tea bags. Earl Grey again.
When I turned toward the living room, mugs in hand, I saw that my guest was awake. He'd managed to push himself upright in the couch's corner. He tracked my approach with eyes that missed nothing.
I placed his mug on the side table, within easy reach. With my tea in hand, I settled into the leather chair across from him, letting my free hand settle into my lap.
Neither of us spoke.
Familiar morning sounds surrounded us—pipes ticking as metal contracted, and Mrs. Kaminski's television providing distant commentary from upstairs.
One of Dorian's hands rested against his bandaged ribs. He ignored the tea altogether. I watched him as he closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath. It caused him to wince.
I reached for my phone and tapped open my old Bluetooth speaker. Something low and pulsing began to play—Robyn's "Dancing On My Own." I hadn't meant to pick it. It must've been last on my queue, but it was a little depressing. I started to skip it.
Before I could, Dorian stopped me.
