The morning came slow and gold through Tom's blinds, and he'd been awake to watch every shade of it. He hadn't slept—not really. Just drifted in and out of that half-dream where Malek's bare chest hovered in the dark, where the smell of damp skin and cheap soap filled his apartment like a second presence.
He'd showered twice. Cleaned the bathroom until it gleamed. Made coffee he didn't drink, let it go cold on the counter while he stood at the window and watched the construction site sit empty, Saturday-quiet, the machines silenced and the men gone. Malek didn't work Saturdays. Malek might come by anyway.
The hours crawled. Tom tried to read, tried to watch something on his laptop, but every sound outside made his head snap up—a car door, footsteps on the sidewalk, a voice too distant to place. His hands wouldn't stop fidgeting. He picked at the label on his beer bottle until it came off in wet strips, then realized he wasn't drinking it either.
It was almost noon when the knock came.
Tom's heart slammed into his ribs. He stood up too fast, nearly knocking his chair over, and crossed to the door in five strides that felt both too quick and not quick enough. His hand found the knob, cold and solid, and he pulled it open.
Malek stood in the doorway, out of his work clothes for the first time—dark jeans that hung loose on his hips, a gray t-shirt stretched over his broad chest, the fabric soft and worn. His salt-and-pepper hair was still a little damp at the temples, like he'd showered before coming. He smelled like soap, but a different kind than Tom's. Something woodsy. Something that belonged to him.
'Hey, kid.' His voice was low, rougher than usual. He rubbed the back of his neck, his tell, and didn't quite meet Tom's eyes. 'I hope I'm not interrupting anything.'
'No.' Tom stepped back, held the door wider. 'No, I was just—come in.'
Malek ducked his head and stepped inside, and the apartment seemed smaller with him in it. He stood in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets, looking around at the space like he was seeing it for the first time—the worn couch, the stack of textbooks on the coffee table, the single mug of cold coffee on the counter. His eyes landed on the window, then slid away.
'Can I get you something?' Tom asked, closing the door. 'Coffee? Beer?'
'Coffee'd be good. Thanks.'
Tom busied himself with the machine, grateful for something to do with his hands. The familiar ritual—filter, grounds, water—gave him something to focus on besides the way Malek's shoulders sagged, the heaviness in the way he held himself. Something was different today. The warmth was still there, but it was buried under something else. Something tired.
'You okay?' Tom asked, keeping his voice light. He handed Malek the mug, their fingers brushing for just a second. Malek's hand was warm, calloused, and he didn't pull away as fast as he used to.
Malek wrapped both hands around the mug and stared down into the dark liquid like it held answers. The silence stretched. Tom waited, his pulse a steady thrum in his throat.
'No,' Malek said finally. The word came out quiet, almost surprised, like he hadn't meant to say it at all. 'No, I'm not okay.'
Tom's chest tightened. He sat down on the arm of the couch, close enough to reach out if he needed to, close enough to see the way Malek's jaw was set, the muscle jumping in his cheek. 'Do you want to talk about it?'
Malek let out a long breath. He set the coffee down on the counter without drinking it and walked to the window, his back to Tom. The light caught the broad set of his shoulders, the silver in his hair, the way his hands hung at his sides like they didn't know what to hold.
'Things at home,' he said slowly, 'they're not good at all.'
The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Tom stayed where he was, didn't push, didn't fill the silence. He'd learned that about Malek—the man needed space to find his words, needed to feel like he was giving them, not having them pulled out of him.
'Last night,' Malek continued, his voice rougher now, 'we had a fight. A bad one. She told me she doesn't know who I am anymore, that I've been distant, that I'm not the man she married.' He laughed, but there was no humor in it. 'She's right. I'm not that man. I haven't been for a long time.'
Tom's throat was tight. 'I'm sorry.'
Malek shook his head. 'Don't be. It's been coming for years. We've been pretending for so long I don't even remember what it felt like to not pretend.' His hand came up, rubbed the back of his neck, and stayed there. 'The kids don't know yet. I don't know how to tell them. I don't know how to tell anyone.'
He turned around then, and his dark eyes met Tom's. There was something raw in them, something unguarded, and Tom felt his heart crack open a little wider.
'I'm sorry,' Malek said again. 'I shouldn't be dumping this on you. You're a kid, you've got your own life—'
'I'm not a kid.' Tom stood up, crossed the space between them until he was close enough to feel the heat coming off Malek's body. 'And you can dump anything on me. That's what—' He stopped, swallowed. 'That's what friends do.'
Friends. The word felt small, wrong, but he didn't have another one.
Malek looked at him for a long moment. Then his mouth curved into something soft, something grateful, and he reached out and squeezed Tom's shoulder—a brief touch, warm and solid. 'Thank you.'
Tom's skin tingled where Malek's hand had been. He cleared his throat, looked away. 'Have you eaten? We could go get lunch. Somewhere away from here, away from—' He gestured vaguely at everything. 'All of it.'
Malek's eyebrows lifted. 'You're asking me to lunch?'
'Yeah.' Tom felt his face heat. 'I mean, if you want to. No pressure. I just thought—maybe it'd be good to get out of the house. Both of us.'
Malek studied him for a long second. Then the tiredness in his face eased, just a little, and he nodded. 'Yeah. Okay. Lunch sounds good.'
The diner was a ten-minute walk from Tom's apartment, a small place with cracked vinyl booths and a jukebox that hadn't been updated since the '90s. They took a booth by the window, and the afternoon sun fell across the table between them, catching the dust motes floating in the air.
Malek ordered a turkey club and a coke, and when the food came he ate like a man who hadn't realized he was hungry. Tom picked at his burger, watching him, the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders slowly loosened as the meal went on. They talked about nothing—the diner's coffee, a movie Tom had seen last week, the best way to fix a leaky faucet (Malek had opinions). It was easy, the way it had always been easy between them, and for a while Tom let himself pretend that this was just two friends having lunch on a Saturday.
Then Malek's phone buzzed.
He glanced at it, and something in his face changed. The ease drained out, replaced by a tightness that made Tom's stomach clench. Malek read the message, his thumb hovering over the screen, and then he set the phone down face-up on the table.
'She doesn't want me to come home tonight.' His voice was flat. Hollow. 'She needs time to think.'
Tom's chest ached. 'Malek—'
'It's fine.' Malek picked up his coffee, took a long drink. His hand was steady, but there was something fragile in the way he held himself, like a man bracing for a blow that had already landed. 'I'll find a hotel. It's not a big deal.'
'No.' The word came out before Tom could think. 'No, don't do that. Stay at my place.'
Malek's eyes snapped up. 'Tom—'
'I have a couch. It's comfortable. I mean, it's not a hotel, but it's free, and you don't have to be alone, and—' Tom stopped himself, realized he was rambling, and took a breath. 'I don't want you to be alone tonight.'
The words hung between them, bigger than he'd meant them to be. Malek stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable, and Tom felt his face heat under the weight of that gaze.
'You barely know me,' Malek said quietly.
'I know enough.' Tom met his eyes, held them. 'I know you're a good man. I know you're kind. I know you fix faucets and bring coffee and wave at me when you think I'm not looking.' His voice dropped. 'I know you're lonely, Malek. And so am I. So stay. Please.'
The silence stretched, thick and warm. Malek's throat worked, and for a moment Tom thought he saw something glisten in his eyes—but then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a softness that made Tom's heart ache.
'Okay,' Malek said, his voice rough. 'Okay, I'll stay.'
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