The sound of him puking into the toilet has me running out of his bedroom and into the kitchen.

Shifting from foot to foot, I ask myself, Why did I stay here last night in his bed? Am I insane? He warned me to stay away. He told me he never shared a bed! But I ignored him, like a fool. I need to get out of here and never return. My life isn’t perfect, but I’d like to keep it.

Slade is the best man I’ve ever known, but something is wrong. All of this between us is just temporary, and sure, I like him more than I should, but the truth is, I’m scared of him. Should I be? He pulled a gun on me, but I was the one who surprised him. I should have known better. I should know that shaking a sleeping man like him would be dangerous … like poking a bear, right? I start to laugh. Something in the back of my mind tells me I’m losing it, but I just shake my head. I had the best night of my life last night, and sure, this morning has been … frightening, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, right? Because he’s fine and I’m fine and all is well. But, no, it’s not well. A gun was pulled on me! Shit. My life doesn’t make sense anymore.

My thoughts are on speed, denial battling with reality, when he casually walks into the kitchen, huge and imposing with spiky wet hair, low-slung black jersey pants, and a white T-shirt showcasing his tats and muscles. The red in his eyes has somewhat cleared, but he looks … hungover. He looks hungover, and we didn’t drink last night. This means … this means nothing; that’s what it means!

Or … it means everything, my psyche reminds me.

Leaning against a wooden cabinet, he pulls out a glass and fills it with ice from the freezer and water from the sink. The coffee I made sits hot in a small carafe. He stares at me, drinking, but no words are spoken.

Pouring the hot coffee into a mug set on the counter, I risk a long glance at the man before me. My first thought is how handsome he is, even with misery written all over his unshaved face.

“Morning,” he croaks.

His first word is mine.

A cigarette moves into his lips. He lights up.

I bring my own coffee to my mouth, needing something to do. He stares, not giving any indication whether or not we’re going to discuss what just happened.

“I’ll take you to your room at the Mile and then drop you off at the Center for work. You’re working today, yeah?” His eyes are now guarded, silently adding, Don’t say a word about it.

I want to ask him, What are you hiding? My inclination though is to smooth it all over with a smile and brush problems under the rug. Not let him feel bad or awkward or push him where he doesn’t want to go. But how can I do that? Something dark is happening with this man, and the fear I feel is real. Am I allowed to discuss it with him, or will I lose him if I do? His good parts are so good. But … this is way beyond the realm of okay.