08-12-2025, 09:12 PM
The elevator doors closed with a muted hum, brass trim glinting under warm overhead light. Kristian’s reflection stood beside Jensen’s in the mirrored wall, bow tie untied, mask discarded, fingertips still pinching the bridge of his nose against whatever storm pressed behind his eyes.
Following Kristian's offer, Jensen’s smile was small but genuine. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, voice steady, his words rolling with the faint cadence of Texas. “But it’s not a debt to settle. If I can help, I will. That’s the whole of it.”
The loft opened the moment the steel-framed door slid inward. Exposed ventilation stretched overhead while brick walls were worn smooth with age. A run of windows stretched the far side, their dark glass reflecting city lights. The kitchen was tucked into one end, cabinets of dark wood beneath a slab of marble, and the rest of the space flowed easy from living to sleeping, all of it tied together by a mix of sleek modern pieces and older treasures.
“It's not mine,” Jensen said easily, anticipating a comment about the space after setting his things on a narrow antique table near the door. “Fellow by the name of John Doulou owns the place. I just keep it in good order while he’s gone.”
He slipped out of his coat, hung it neatly, and gestured toward a deep, low-armed sofa in the center of the room. “Have a seat if you don't mind. It’s easier when people are comfortable. Not because it changes anything, not really-" his mouth curved faintly perhaps in memory, perhaps in fascination, “but because tension has a way of getting in the way.”
Jensen joined him, then close enough for conversation but not crowding. He turned slightly, hands open on his knees, palms angled toward Kristian. “One thing,” he said, tone gentle but unambiguous. “It helps if I’m in contact with you while I'm-- um, you know...” He didn’t move yet only lifted his brows in silent question, giving Kristian space to agree before a single touch was made.
Following Kristian's offer, Jensen’s smile was small but genuine. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, voice steady, his words rolling with the faint cadence of Texas. “But it’s not a debt to settle. If I can help, I will. That’s the whole of it.”
The loft opened the moment the steel-framed door slid inward. Exposed ventilation stretched overhead while brick walls were worn smooth with age. A run of windows stretched the far side, their dark glass reflecting city lights. The kitchen was tucked into one end, cabinets of dark wood beneath a slab of marble, and the rest of the space flowed easy from living to sleeping, all of it tied together by a mix of sleek modern pieces and older treasures.
“It's not mine,” Jensen said easily, anticipating a comment about the space after setting his things on a narrow antique table near the door. “Fellow by the name of John Doulou owns the place. I just keep it in good order while he’s gone.”
He slipped out of his coat, hung it neatly, and gestured toward a deep, low-armed sofa in the center of the room. “Have a seat if you don't mind. It’s easier when people are comfortable. Not because it changes anything, not really-" his mouth curved faintly perhaps in memory, perhaps in fascination, “but because tension has a way of getting in the way.”
Jensen joined him, then close enough for conversation but not crowding. He turned slightly, hands open on his knees, palms angled toward Kristian. “One thing,” he said, tone gentle but unambiguous. “It helps if I’m in contact with you while I'm-- um, you know...” He didn’t move yet only lifted his brows in silent question, giving Kristian space to agree before a single touch was made.