The night we slept together. The night I ran from him afterward, terrified of what I felt. Of what he made me feel.
I don't answer. Just step back, opening the door wider in silent invitation. He hesitates for a moment, then steps inside, his large frame making the apartment seem even smaller.
He looks around, taking in the space with a single glance. The peeling wallpaper, the secondhand furniture, the textbooks stacked precariously on every available surface. His eyes linger on the framed photo of my mother and me, taken years ago when life was simpler and hope came easier.
"You live here?" The question isn't judgmental. Just... surprised.
"For now." I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly self-conscious. "It's cheap. Close to campus."
Ian's gaze returns to me, softening slightly. "Are you hungry?” He holds up a grocery bag I didn't notice before. "I brought food."
The scent hits me then—something warm and savory and delicious. My stomach growls traitorously, reminding me that I haven't eaten since... I can't remember. Yesterday? The day before?
Ian moves past me into the tiny kitchen, setting the bag on the counter. He pulls out containers with practiced ease, opening cabinets until he finds plates, silverware, glasses. He moves like he belongs here, like he's done this a thousand times before.
I watch him, confused and touched and something else I can't name. No one has ever... taken care of me like this. Not since my mother got sick. Not since I learned that the world doesn't reward vulnerability.
"You didn't have to do this," I say, my voice sounding small in the quiet apartment.
Ian turns to look at me, his expression unreadable. "Yes, I did."
The certainty in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like he can see all the parts of me I keep hidden.
He pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. "Eat."
I do, because arguing seems pointless. The food is some kind of pasta dish, rich with tomatoes and herbs and something meaty I can't identify. It's delicious, the kind of meal you'd get at a nice restaurant, not something delivered in plastic containers.
Ian watches me as I eat, his eyes tracking my every movement. It should make me uncomfortable, that scrutiny, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes me feel... seen. In a way I haven't in a long time.
"You're not going to ask why I haven't been back?" I say finally, breaking the silence.
"No." He leans back in his chair, his large frame making the cheap furniture seem even more flimsy. "You needed time. I get that."
I set down my fork, my appetite suddenly gone. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." He holds my gaze, steady and unblinking. "You're not the first person to need space after... what happened between us."
The reminder sends heat flooding my cheeks. I look away, focusing on a point over his shoulder. "It shouldn't have happened."
"Why not?" The question is soft, almost gentle. "Because I work at the club? Because you dance there?"
"Because it complicates things." I stand abruptly, needing to move, to do something with the restless energy coursing through me. "Because I have goals. Plans. Things I can't afford to mess up."
Ian watches me pace, his expression unchanging. "And you think being with me would mess that up?"
"I think getting involved with anyone would." I stop, facing him. "Letting someone in… caring about someone would ruin my focus."
The admission hangs in the air between us, raw and vulnerable. I've never said it out loud before. Never acknowledged how much easier it is to keep people at arm's length. To let them see only what I want them to see.
Ian stands slowly, crossing the distance between us in a few strides. He stops in front of me, close but not touching, his presence overwhelming in the best possible way.
"You think you're the only one with walls?" His voice is a low rumble, vibrating through me. "The only one who's learned that letting people in is dangerous?"
I look up at him, meeting his gaze. "I think we're having two different conversations."
"Maybe." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin. "Or maybe we're having the same one."
The touch sends sparks through me, igniting a fire I thought I'd extinguished. I should step back. Should put space between us before this goes somewhere I'm not ready for.
