When they ended up in his bedroom, he wasn’t sure what to think. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, wishing he had a nicer place to bring her to. He’d bought a longer bed because the old one left his feet hanging over the edge, but the new one barely left walking space in the small room. Plus, it was sitting right on the floor like it belonged to one of those drug dealers who always bought a king-sized pillow top from their first haul of little plastic bags, forgetting all about the frame that was supposed to go with it. On the far side of the hastily made blankets was his secondhand saxophone case, its edges glaringly frayed.

“Sorry about this,” he muttered. “I’m saving up for a bed frame.”

She frowned. “Furniture is supposed to be included with the apartments. You should have told us the bed wasn’t big enough.”

“I can buy my own bed.”

A little bit of the old stiff went back into her spine at his tone, and LJ wished he had kept his mouth shut.

Pride is a rich man’s vice, his mama’s voice reminded him.

Andra turned away, probably searching for something else to ask for a story about, but all that was left was his closet. His handful of shirts hung to one side, leaving nothing but a vacant rod above the bright-blue cracked paint of the last object he ever wanted her to see.

She paused, and he ground down on his back teeth. She was so careful of everyone normally, she might not even ask, but she’d know it meant something.

Of course she would—it was half a fucking door. Who the hell kept that in their closet? He glanced away, his leg muscles twitching.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” she said quietly.

This girl. Jesus, this girl.

He stepped up behind her and ran his knuckles down her shoulder blades, so she knew he was there, before he dropped his head to her shoulder and buried his face in her hair. His arms wrapped around her waist, and for a second, he was breathing in frothing floodwater, debris slamming into his ankles as he pulled her higher on the roof, toward safety. He blinked and loosened his grip so he wouldn’t hurt her.

“It was my door.”

Water damage blistered the bright-blue paint, and spots of old mold still dirtied the finish. A rusted doorknob sprouted from one side, the wood broken on the other where it had been wrenched off its hinges. He’d chainsawed off the bottom half to make it smaller to store, leaving just the spray-painted X and the numbers.