Page 10 of Gap Control

I landed on a cracked cement landing, with a short stairwell and a metal railing that had started to rust at the joints. Although it was still daylight, a flickering security light buzzed above me.

I exhaled slowly.

It was the first time I'd really breathed since walking into TJ's apartment.

A gust of cold early November wind cut between the buildings. I shoved my hands into my pockets and crossed the parking lot, boots crunching on salt left over from a Halloween snow event—what the weather people called it.

I'd done what I came to do—de-escalate, get clarity, draw boundaries for a chaotic situation.

But all I could think about was the look on TJ's face when I said yes.

Like he'd just been handed the only gift he wanted for Christmas.

I'd parked my car in the shadow of a dumpster, between a Camry missing one hubcap and a snowbank that would probably grow until spring. I slid into the driver's seat and let the silence press in around me.

My phone buzzed.

I didn't check the notifications right away. I sat there, staring through the windshield at the building across the lot.

Another buzz, and I grabbed my phone. #Rykson was still trending.

I tapped on the latest post. It was a slowed-down version of the hug with the Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun" playing in the background.

The hug looked different in slow motion. Less of a celebration. More tender than that.

I didn't remember leaning in that much, but there it was—my face angled just slightly, eyes soft. TJ beamed.

I locked the screen and tossed the phone into the passenger seat, then braced both hands against the wheel like I was about to drive straight through a wall.

My visit with TJ didn't fix anything.

If that's all I wanted to do, I could've texted. Called. Let it blow over.

I didn't.

I showed up, and then I offered to keep it going.

I ran it all over again in my head. The goal was story control, keeping the press off our backs.

That didn't explain why I'd noticed his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Or why I'd liked how my name sounded in his mouth, casual and a little fond.

I started the car, backed out slowly, and drove toward my place, thinking I still had time to change direction, maybe even turn around.

I didn't look back at the building, but I already knew which window was TJ's.

My apartment was quiet when I opened the door.

Not a peaceful silence… empty. The place was used to me coming home without bringing anyone or anything with me.

I shut the door behind me, slid off my boots, and hung my coat on the rack by the door. Straightened it automatically so the sleeves lined up. Then I walked to the kitchen, filled the electric kettle, and turned it on.

Late afternoon edged toward evening, and Lewiston began its slow, gray, November fade. I didn't turn on music. Didn't ask Alexa to do anything.

The kettle clicked off.

I poured the hot water, dunked a tea bag, and sat at the small table by the window holding the mug in both hands like it might give me advice.

The steam rose quick and clean—nothing like TJ's kitchen, where he'd covered the fridge door in takeout menus, and everything smelled faintly like soy sauce and vanilla protein powder.

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