Bedroom Lock

The first punch landed square on my shoulder, and I let it.

Not because I wanted to. Because Tyler had that look in his eye, the one that said he needed to hit something and I happened to be the closest available target. We'd been circling each other in my living room for ten minutes, ever since he'd shown up at my door with a split lip and a story about a deal gone sideways in the Hollows.

"You're pulling your punches," I said, rolling my shoulder. "That's insulting."

"I'm not pulling anything." He bounced on the balls of his feet, boots scuffing the hardwood I'd spent three weeks refinishing. "You're just slow."

I lunged. He sidestepped, but not fast enough. My arm hooked around his waist and I took him down to the rug, both of us landing hard enough to rattle the coffee table. A half-empty glass of whiskey tipped over and spilled amber across my case files.

"Those were organized," I said.

"They were in a pile. That's not organized."

He twisted beneath me, all wiry muscle and stubbornness, and got his knee into my ribs. I grunted. He used the moment to flip us, and then he was on top, grinning down at me with that crooked smile that made me want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure.

We'd been doing this for three years. The fighting. The flirting. The pretending neither of us meant it.

"You're distracted," Tyler said. His breath smelled like cheap coffee and the mint gum he chewed to cover the cigarettes he thought I didn't know about. "What's going on in that theatrical head of yours?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

He leaned closer, and I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the one he'd gotten before we met, back when he was still running with the wrong people. His blue eyes flickered with something I couldn't name. Challenge. Curiosity. Maybe hope.

I grabbed his collar and yanked. He came down hard, and our foreheads cracked together.

"Ow. Christ, Anthony."

"Serves you right."

We scrambled apart, both breathing heavy. The apartment smelled like sweat and spilled whiskey and the rain that had been falling for three days straight. Tyler sat back on his heels, pushing his dark hair out of his face. It fell right back. He'd needed a haircut for months.

"You could just ask," I said.

"Ask what?"

"What you came here to ask."

He looked away. That was how I knew I was right. Tyler never looked away unless he was about to say something true, and saying something true cost him more than any fight ever did.

"It's not a big deal."

"Then ask."

He stood up, brushing off his jeans. The leather jacket creaked. It was the same jacket he'd worn the night we met, back when I was still doing theater and he was still running packages for the syndicate, back before everything went to hell. He'd saved my life that night. I'd never asked why.

"I need a place to crash," he said. "Few days. Maybe a week."

"You have a place."

"Had."

I sat up, reaching for the overturned glass. Most of the whiskey had soaked into a stack of surveillance photos. The faces blurred. I didn't need them anyway. I remembered every single one.

"What happened?"

"Same thing that always happens." He shrugged, but his shoulders stayed tight. "People want what I've got. I don't want to give it."

"You could fight them."

"I did. That's why I'm here."

I studied him. The split lip. The bruise forming on his forearm. The way he stood with his weight on his back foot, ready to bolt if I said the wrong thing. Tyler had been running for as long as I'd known him. I used to think it was because he liked the motion. Now I knew better. He ran because stopping meant letting someone close enough to hurt him.

"The couch pulls out," I said.

"I know."

"You've slept on it before."

"I know."

"So what's different?"

He met my eyes then, and the look in them was raw enough to make my chest ache. "Everything."

I stood up. The whiskey had soaked through my shirt, cold against my skin. Outside, the rain kept falling, streaking the windows, blurring the city lights into something soft and distant. This part of town was quiet at night. The kind of quiet that made you hear your own heartbeat.

"You want to tell me what really happened?" I asked.

"No."

"Fair enough."

I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed. The fingerless gloves were new. Or new to me. I noticed things like that. It was my job.

"You're bleeding," I said.

He touched his lip. Looked at his fingers. "It's nothing."

"It's something."

He pressed the towel to his mouth and sat down on the couch, the one that pulled out into a bed he'd slept on a dozen times before. I'd never asked him to stay. He'd never asked to. We'd just orbited each other, close enough to touch, far enough to pretend we weren't.

I poured two fresh glasses of whiskey. Brought him one. He took it without looking at me.

"The job went bad," he said. "Client wanted more than I could deliver. Tried to take it anyway."

"Client have a name?"

"Not one you want."

"I'll decide that."

He drank. Winced. The whiskey was cheap and harsh, and he'd never developed a taste for it. He drank it anyway because I'd offered.

"Marcus Vane," he said.

The name landed like a stone in still water. Marcus Vane ran half the underground trade in the eastern district. Weapons. Information. People. He was the kind of man who collected debts in flesh and bone, and he didn't forget a face.

"You stole from Marcus Vane."

"I didn't steal. I found. There's a difference."

"Not to him."

Tyler laughed, short and sharp. "No. Not to him."

I sat down on the coffee table, facing him. Our knees almost touched. The rain kept falling. The city kept humming its low, constant song. And Tyler looked at me with those blue eyes, and I felt the familiar pull, the one I'd been ignoring for three years.

"You can stay," I said.

"I know."

"As long as you need."

"I know."

"Stop saying that."

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough. "Okay."

I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to push him back on that couch and show him what I'd been holding back, what I'd been too scared to say out loud. Instead, I stood up and walked to the window.

"You hungry?" I asked.

"Starving."

"I'll order something."

"Anthony."

I turned. He was standing now, towel still pressed to his lip, whiskey in his other hand. The scar on his jaw caught the light. His dark hair fell over his eyes. He looked like a ghost. Like a memory. Like the only person who'd ever seen me for who I really was.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't mention it."

"I mean it."

"I know."

He nodded. Sat back down. Drank his whiskey. And I stood there by the window, watching the rain, wondering how long I could keep pretending that this was just friendship, that the way my heart hammered when he was near was something I could ignore.

The truth was, I'd been in love with Tyler for three years. The truth was, I'd never told him. The truth was, I was terrified that if I did, he'd disappear like he always did, back into the shadows, back into the ruins, back into whatever life he'd built for himself without me in it.

So I ordered Chinese food and pretended everything was normal. And Tyler sat on my couch, bleeding and broken and beautiful, and pretended the same.

We were good at pretending. It was the one thing we had in common.

The food came. We ate in silence, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the space between us charged with everything we weren't saying. He ate like he always did, fast and focused, like someone who'd gone hungry too many times to take a meal for granted. I watched him and thought about all the nights I'd spent wondering where he was, if he was safe, if he was thinking about me.

"You're staring," he said.

"You're bleeding on my couch."

He looked down. A spot of red had soaked through the towel and onto the cushion. "Sorry."

"Don't be."

I reached over and took the towel from him. His lip had stopped bleeding, but the cut was deep. It would scar. Another one to add to the collection.

"Hold still," I said.

I dabbed at the wound with a clean corner of the towel. He flinched, but he didn't pull away. His eyes stayed on mine, and I could feel his breath on my fingers, warm and uneven.

"You've done this before," he said.

"Patched you up? A few times."

"No. I mean..." He paused. Swallowed. "Never mind."

"Tyler."

He looked away. The rain kept falling. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded. The city was always moving, always changing, always threatening to swallow us whole.

"What were you going to say?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

He laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You know me too well."

"Not well enough."

He turned back to me then, and the look on his face was something I'd never seen before. Vulnerable. Open. Scared.

"Anthony," he said. "Why do you let me stay?"

"Because you need a place to crash."

"That's not what I mean."

I set the towel down. My hands were shaking. I didn't know why.

"Because I want you to," I said.

The words hung in the air between us. Tyler didn't move. Didn't blink. The rain kept falling, and the city kept humming, and I kept waiting for him to run.

He didn't.

"Say it again," he whispered.

"Because I want you to."

He reached out. His fingers brushed my jaw, cold from the whiskey glass, rough from the gloves. I closed my eyes. I couldn't help it. Three years of wanting, and now he was touching me like I was something precious, something worth holding onto.

"Anthony," he said.

I opened my eyes.

"Kiss me," he said.

So I did.

His lips were chapped and tasted like whiskey and blood. He made a sound, low in his throat, and pulled me closer. The towel fell. The glasses tipped. I didn't care. I'd been waiting for this for three years, and now that it was happening, I couldn't think about anything else.

He broke away first. Breathless. Shaking.

"That was..." He trailed off.

"Yeah," I said. "It was."

He laughed. Real this time. And I laughed too, because what else could we do? We'd spent so long pretending, and now the pretense was over, and we were just two people on a couch in a rainy city, finally telling the truth.

"Marcus Vane," I said.

"I know."

"We'll deal with him."

"I know."

"Together."

He looked at me. The scar on his jaw. The dark hair falling over his eyes. The smile that made me want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Together," he said.

And for the first time in three years, I believed it.