Page 3 of Stained Protector

It’s the weight of a blanket and fluffed pillow that piece back the patchy message ofthis is not my homeand the need to leave immediately. I shoot up from the couch, strands of hair slapping my cheeks and plopping onto the side of my shoulder.

It’s bright, quiet, and…

I slept the whole night. Impossible. Absolutely no way in a million years.

My bed offers me roughly seven or nine hours of sleep, give or take, while most nights are light sleep, but nothing like this. This is the rejuvenated and contented equivalent of winter hibernation.

This is a coincidence. Stress does that to people, and napping in strange places isn’t unheard of.

“Good morning,” he greets from the kitchen, plating food with nimble fingers and putting the dirty pan in the sink.

“Morning,” I say, a robotic gurgle tumbling on my tongue.

“I made breakfast.” His eyes idle on my unkempt hair and furrowed brows. A small smile forms on his lips as he carries the plates to the dining table.

How did I go from thinking he was the intruder to eating breakfast with said man? I don’t know, but he does make great breakfast. The food melts in my mouth, and the cup of coffee is sweetened how I usually have it.

His iced Americano looks so miserable.

“I fell asleep,” I start, regretting the way it comes out. I hope he doesn’t hear the accusing implication or see the tight curl of my fingers around the fork.

“I don’t sleep well,” I mumble, eyes running to table objects for distraction. “Especially when I’m not at home.”

“Insomnia?” he asks, stirring the ice in his coffee.

I shake my head. “Work and…”

Two jobs were fine at first. The extra cash helped loosen financial constraints, but exhaustion is a hefty price to pay. If I don’t find a higher-paying job or a less physically draining one, I’ll see a haunting number on my next medical invoice.

However, none of that justifies sleeping in a stranger’s house.

“I can send you the link to that.” He points to the corner of his ceiling, a camera aiming at the entire apartment from the best vantage view. “It’s the best one I’ve tried,” he says while pulling up the footage of last night. “I have to keep my projects safe.”

I play the recording, fast-forwarding it from when I walked into the apartment to now. He was near me once to put a blanket over me and a pillow under my head. The rest of the night was peaceful until he came out of his bedroom in the morning, about an hour before I woke up. He just sat by the window and stared outside, then went to make breakfast.

Now, there is no way he doesn’t know I thought he was a man with nefarious intentions. I’m thankful he lets the embarrassment die in peace.

“I want it,” I mutter, ears so hot that they could be on fire. “Please.”

A small, strangled noise leaves my lips. That sounded inappropriate, and he gracefully smiles in response.

He taps on his phone and shows me the screen. The link to the product is in the message box, waiting for me to put my number in. I don’t think twice about it since lots of companies require phone numbers for delivery.

“Thank you for breakfast,” I say with an obliged grin. “I’m sorry for intruding.”

“Don’t be.” He stands with me, holding a hand up to stop me from cleaning the dishes. “A good night of rest is what matters.”

I give him a more sincere smile, the bias against him ebbing away little by little. He’s not that bad; I let my own thoughts and other people’s assumptions mislead me. He’s reserved and modest, not stuck-up and rude like some have said, because he wouldn’t stop to have a conversation with them. That deemed him as “too good” for the “average folks,” as one offended husband had lamented to another.

“I better get going,” I say and look around for my phone.

It’s next to a pile of sketchbooks on the coffee table. They’re wrinkled, puffed up, and the top one has a quarter of sleek paper left.

“You draw,” I note, an observation with no intention to pry.

“Freelance artist.” While I look for his projects, he tilts his head to follow my gaze.

The walls are bare, books lined perfectly by color on the shelf, and muted hues dominate the room. He must notice my interest and the creased brows when I don’t find evidence of his artwork.

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