Three weeks of watching. That's what it came down to, in the end. Three weeks of pressing his palm flat against the cool glass of his apartment window, watching the construction site across the street turn from empty lot to foundation to rising frame. Three weeks of telling himself he was just curious about the process—the way buildings went up, the rhythm of a worksite, the craft of it. But his eyes never followed the beams or the scaffolding. They followed Malik.
Every morning at seven-fifteen, the truck pulled up. Every morning, Malik stepped out first—coffee in one hand, hard hat in the other—and Tom's breath went shallow behind the glass. He'd watch Malik stretch, arms reaching for the sky, the fabric of his work shirt pulling tight across his broad chest. The shirt was always the same faded blue, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms thick as tree roots and covered in dark hair. Sweat would darken the fabric by nine, and by noon, Malik would peel the shirt off and work in just a white undershirt that clung to every curve of his dad bod—the soft belly, the broad shoulders, the dense mat of hair that escaped at the collar.
Tom would stand at the window with a book in his hands that he never read, a coffee that went cold, a hunger he'd never let himself name.
Today was different.
Tom was sprawled on his second-hand couch, an old Nine Inch Nails shirt hanging loose on his frame, gym shorts, no shoes, when the knock came. He'd been drifting, half-asleep, the sounds of the construction site filtering through the thin walls—the beep of trucks backing up, the distant rhythm of hammers—and somewhere in that haze, he'd been picturing Malik's back. The way the muscles moved under that dark hair when he lifted. The way he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, slow and unhurried.
The knock—three heavy raps—pulled him out of it.
He sat up too fast, blinking at his own front door like it had never knocked before. No one visited. His mail went to a box downstairs. His neighbors didn't know his name. The only people who knocked were delivery drivers, and they never knocked that hard.
Three more raps. Impatient. Solid.
Tom's heart climbed into his throat as he crossed the small living room. He could see a shape through the frosted glass—broad, dark-haired, familiar in a way that made his stomach drop. His hand trembled on the deadbolt.
He opened the door.
Malik stood on his welcome mat, sweat shining on his forehead, sawdust in the creases of his shirt. He was closer than Tom had ever seen him—close enough to see the flecks of gray in his stubble, the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the deep brown of his eyes flecked with gold in the afternoon light. His chest was heaving slightly, like he'd been working hard, and the air around him smelled like sweat and wood and something warmer—cumin, maybe, or tobacco.
Malik wiped his brow with the back of his hand. 'Sorry, son.' His voice was low and rumble—deep enough to vibrate in Tom's chest. 'Construction site's got a busted pipe. Porta-potties are closed. You mind if I use your bathroom real quick?'
Son.
The word hit Tom somewhere behind his ribs and dropped straight down. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. He realized he was staring and forced his eyes away, his face heating.
'Yeah—yeah, of course.' His voice came out too high. He stepped aside, holding the door open wider than necessary. 'It's down the hall, first door on your left.'
Malik nodded—a solid, grateful nod—and stepped past him. The doorway was narrow, and Tom felt the heat of Malik's body as he passed close enough to brush. His shoulder nearly touched Tom's chest. The smell was stronger up close. Musk. Work. Smoke. Tom's hands found each other and fidgeted.
He watched Malik's broad back move down the hallway, watched the way his work pants sat low on his hips, the belt heavy with tools that jingled with each step. The bathroom door clicked shut, and Tom let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
He stood there, frozen in his own living room, listening to the sounds of a man he'd been watching for three weeks using his toilet. The absurdity of it hit him, and he almost laughed. Then the toilet flushed. Then the faucet ran. Then the door opened again, and Malik came back, drying his hands on his jeans.
'Appreciate it, son.' Malik stopped in the middle of Tom's living room, looking around for the first time. His eyes moved over the sparse furniture—the couch with the blanket thrown over one arm, the stack of textbooks on the floor, the single plate in the drying rack. The window, where Tom stood every morning. 'Nice place. Quiet.'
'Thanks.' Tom's hands were still fidgeting. He shoved them in his pockets. 'Uh—do you want a beer? I have—I think I have some.'
Malik's eyebrows went up. A slow smile spread across his face, creasing the corners of his dark eyes. 'Bit early for me, but hell. Friday, right?'
'Right.' Tom was already moving toward the fridge, grateful for something to do with his hands. He pulled out two bottles of cheap lager, twisted the caps off, and handed one to Malik. Their fingers touched—brief, accidental—and Tom's skin went electric.
Malik took the beer, took a long pull, and let out a satisfied sigh. 'God, that's good. Hot as hell out there.' He settled onto the edge of Tom's couch with the ease of a man who was comfortable in any space, and Tom sat in the armchair across from him, cradling his own bottle like a shield.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The construction sounds drifted in through the open window. A bird called somewhere. Tom's pulse was loud in his own ears.
'You're the kid from the window,' Malik said.
Tom's blood went cold. 'What?'
Malik took another sip of his beer, casual. 'I see you watching. Every morning. You stand at that window with your coffee, and you watch us work.' He said it without accusation, without heat—just a statement of fact, the way a father might comment on the weather. 'I figured you were just curious about the construction.'
Tom's mouth was dry. He took a swig of his beer, and it burned going down. 'I—yeah. I mean, I like watching how things get built. The process.'
Malik nodded, slow. His dark eyes held Tom's for a beat too long, and something flickered there—amusement, maybe, or something deeper. 'It's good to be curious. A man who stops learning is a man who's dead.'
He finished his beer in three long pulls, set the bottle on the floor, and stood. The couch groaned in relief. 'I should get back. Thanks again, son.'
'Wait.' The word came out before Tom could stop it. Malik turned, one eyebrow raised. Tom's mind scrambled for a reason. 'I mean—if you ever need to use the bathroom again, or just—need a break from the heat. You're welcome anytime.'
Malik studied him for a long moment. That flicker again, in his eyes. Then he smiled—warm, genuine, the kind of smile that reached all the way up to his eyes—and clapped Tom on the shoulder. His hand was heavy, calloused, solid. 'That's real kind of you, Tom.'
Tom hadn't told him his name.
Malik's smile deepened, like he knew exactly what he'd just done. Then he turned and walked out the door, leaving it open behind him, the late afternoon light spilling across Tom's floor.
Tom stood in the middle of his living room for a long time, the half-empty bottle warm in his hand, his shoulder still burning where Malik had touched him.
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