Under The Same Roof

Chapter 1: Wet Shoes, Dry Humor

The wheels of her suitcase clattered unevenly over the wet pavement, each bump sending a little spray of rainwater up the back of her already drenched jeans. She adjusted her grip on the handle, fingers stiff from the cold, and tilted her useless umbrella further away from her head so it stopped poking her in the cheek. The poor thing hung at a crooked angle, the fabric half-ripped and flapping with every gust of wind — more decorative than functional at this point.

The building’s tall glass entrance loomed ahead, golden lobby lights a warm contrast to the gray blur of rain. Her sneakers made that faint squish with every step, a humiliating little soundtrack she couldn’t avoid.

By the time she reached the awning, her hair was sticking to her face in damp strands. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and jabbed the buzzer for his unit.

A short crackle, then his voice, low and unhurried:

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” she said, aware she probably sounded more pitiful than she meant to.

Another pause. Then, “Come up,” followed by the sharp click of the door unlocking.

The lobby smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and wet wool. Her reflection in the elevator doors was… not encouraging. She swiped her palm over her cheeks, trying to tame the runaway hair, but only succeeded in making it stickier.

The elevator hummed as it rose. Water dripped steadily from the hem of her coat, forming a tiny puddle around her sneakers. She tried not to think about how she was about to spend an indefinite amount of time living in the apartment of a man she had absolutely no business thinking about in the way she had been for years.

The floor dinged. She tightened her grip on the suitcase handle, rolled her shoulders back, and walked down the short hall toward his door — the soft thud of her wet shoes echoing off the walls.

She lifted her hand and knocked, three quick taps. The sound had barely faded when the door swung open.

Ethan filled the doorway like it was built for him — bare chest, a white towel hanging loose around his neck, dark hair still damp and pushed back from his forehead. There was a faint sheen on his skin, the kind that didn’t come from a shower but from something that left his muscles warm and worked.

His eyes traveled from her rain-matted hair down to the puddle forming around her sneakers. A slow grin pulled at his mouth.

“Well,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the frame, “if it isn’t the great flood refugee. I was expecting at least one suitcase of dry clothes. Guess not.”

Maya tried for a glare, but the heat creeping up her neck ruined it. “What, no red carpet?” she shot back, shifting her soggy bag higher on her shoulder.

“Red carpet’s in the shop.” His gaze flicked past her to the hall. “You’re dripping all over my neighbors’ floor. Come in before they send me a bill.”

She wheeled the suitcase inside, muttering something about his hospitality being “barely above motel level.” He smirked like he’d heard her just fine.

The faint scent of him — soap mixed with cedar and something faintly warm, maybe coffee — reached her before the door clicked shut behind them.

Maya’s suitcase thunked softly against polished hardwood as she rolled it into the entryway. The place was almost exactly how she remembered from the last time she’d visited — except without the noise of Luke pacing the hall on speakerphone.

Sleek lines, cool gray walls, and black leather furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread. Not a speck of clutter, not even a coffee cup left out. The faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of rain on the balcony door filled the silence.

“Nice place,” she said, pulling her damp coat off one sleeve at a time. “Very… serial killer chic.”

Ethan shut the door behind her, towel still looped around his neck, eyes flicking to the puddle her sneakers were leaving. “Glad you approve. I worked hard on the ‘minimalist bachelor who probably owns a tarp’ vibe.”

She laughed, setting her coat over the back of a chair. “Well, you nailed it.”

He nodded toward the hallway. “Guest room’s at the end. Ignore the gym equipment in the corner — I swear it’s not as creepy as it sounds.”

She tugged her suitcase toward the hall, then hesitated when he added, “Oh — towel’s on the bathroom door if you want to change before you start hypothermia in my living room.”

Her eyes darted involuntarily toward his bare chest again before she caught herself. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, zipping her bag.

“Sure you are,” he said, voice low enough she almost missed it.

Maya knelt to unzip her bag, but Ethan crouched beside her before she could reach for the handle. He plucked the mangled umbrella from where it leaned against the wall, giving it a slow once-over like it was an injured bird.

“This… used to be functional?” he asked, rotating it so one bent rib stuck up like a jagged tooth.

“It survived two years of city storms,” she said defensively, “until today decided to kill both it and my apartment.”

He shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Might be time to let it go, Carter. Put it out of its misery.”

“Thanks for your support,” she deadpanned, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

He folded the wrecked thing up with a single practiced twist of his wrist. She caught herself watching the way his forearms flexed, the faint veins at his wrists shifting under his skin.

“Coffee?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen.

“Yes, please,” she said — too quickly, and she knew it.

The smell hit her before the machine even hissed — rich and dark, edged with that warm cedar scent she’d noticed at the door. He poured her a mug and slid it across the counter, the ceramic warm against her damp hands.

When he passed it to her, his fingers brushed hers — brief, but enough to make her pulse stumble. He didn’t move his hand away right away, either, his gaze holding hers for half a second too long before he let go.

Maya took a sip, pretending it was the coffee that made her catch her breath.