Page 23 of Come Around
I watch her walk away, mentally counting down the days until she never has to wear that uniform again. Seven days. Maybe less if I play my cards right.
“I was thinking,” I say once we’re in the truck, “we should stop by your apartment and pick up some more of your stuff.”
After our first night, I took Sami shopping for a few essentials, but I know she’s probably missing some of her own stuff.
Surprise flickers across her face. “Now?”
“Why not? You’re off tomorrow, and you mentioned needing more clothes.” I keep my tone casual. “Plus, I want to see this place that’s charging you for cold showers.”
She laughs. “It’s really not worth the trip. It’s tiny and depressing.”
“All the more reason to get your stuff out of there.” I reach across the console to take her hand. “Bring whatever you want to my place. There’s plenty of room.”
I see the hesitation in her eyes, the instinctive pull toward self-reliance warring with the comfort I’m offering. She’s still fighting this on some level, still holding onto her independence with both hands. It’s cute, really. How she thinks she can resist what’s happening between us.
“Okay,” she says finally. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you about the state of it.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the smallest, shittiest apartment I’ve ever seen.The place smells of mildew and ancient carpet. A draft whistles through poorly sealed windows, and the radiator in the corner clanks like it’s on its last legs.
Fuck.
This is where my woman has been living for the last three months. This is what she’s been working those degrading shifts to afford.
Rage burns in my gut, but I keep my expression neutral as she moves around the space, gathering clothes and personal items. Every pathetic detail of this place strengthens my position. Every broken fixture and peeling patch of wallpaper makes my home look more like salvation.
“Grab whatever you need, Kitten,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “No rush.”
She pulls a suitcase from the tiny closet and begins filling it with clothes. Each item she packs is another victory. Another piece of her life being transferred to my territory.
“Should I bring this?” She holds up a framed photo of a coastline. “It’s from Connecticut. The beach near where I grew up.”
“Bring everything that matters to you.” I move closer, studying the photo. A piece of her past, her history. I want it all under my roof. “My walls could use some decoration.”
She smiles, wrapping the frame in a sweater before tucking it into the suitcase. “You sure you don’t mind me taking over your space?”
“It’s our space now.” The words slip out before I can stop them. But instead of the panic I expect to see on her face, there’s only a soft flush of pleasure.
She moves to a small desk in the corner and hesitates, her fingers hovering over a stack of sheet music and composition notebooks.
“These too?” she asks, not meeting my eyes.
“Especially those. I want to hear you play, remember?”
She nods and adds the notebooks to her growing pile of belongings. The suitcase fills quickly—clothes, books, toiletries, mementos. Each item a thread tying her more securely to me.
I watch her mentally catalog what remains, knowing she’s already thinking about what to bring next time. Because there will be a next time. And soon after, there won’t be anything left worth coming back for.
Later that day,I watch Sami from the kitchen as she moves around the living room, organizing the belongings we brought from her apartment. She pauses every few minutes to glance at the baby grand piano in the corner, the longing in her eyes so clear it might as well be a neon sign.
I’ve caught her looking at it all week, hesitating near it, even running her fingers lightly across the closed lid when she thought I wasn’t watching. But she hasn’t played. Not once. Despite telling me about her dreams of film scoring, despite the stacks of composition notebooks she’s brought to my house, she’s kept this part of herself locked away. Until now.
I pour two glasses of wine and move into the living room, setting them on the coffee table.
“You keep looking at it,” I say, nodding toward the piano. “Are you finally ready to play for me?”
She startles slightly, caught in her longing. “I wasn’t looking at it.”
“Bullshit.” I smile to soften the word. “You’ve been circling it like it might bite you all week.”
