Keith’s couch was lumpy and the ceiling had a water stain shaped like Australia, but to Trina, it felt safer than any luxury high-rise.
She lay there in one of his old T-shirts, wrapped in a throw blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and roasted garlic. The sounds of the city outside his small apartment were different from the polished hush of Adrian’s penthouse—closer, rougher. Someone argued on the sidewalk. A siren wailed in the distance and faded. Pipes hummed in the walls.
Her phone sat face down on the coffee table.
Keith moved around the kitchen quietly, trying not to hover and failing at it. He set a mug of tea down within reach, then a plate with toast. He didn’t say eat. He just left them there like offerings and went back to pretending to scroll something on his phone.
