The Week I Stayed at His Place

Monday – Day 1: Moving In

I didn’t think this week would turn out like this. Honestly, when the apartment above mine started leaking water through my ceiling, I just panicked. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know where I’d stay. I only knew I couldn’t stay in my place anymore.

When I mentioned it at work last week, it was just in passing. I wasn’t looking for help. But James had looked up from his desk and said, “I’ll be away on a work trip. You can stay at my place if you need to.”

I laughed at first. Thought he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

He handed me a spare key the next day and told me where everything was—the thermostat, the wifi password, the coffee machine. He even sent me a text the night before he left: “Help yourself to anything. Make yourself at home.”

So now I’m here.

Standing in his hallway, suitcase beside me, keys still in my hand.

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes you breathe slower. His apartment is warm, clean, a little too tidy maybe. Like the kind of place someone only really lives in during the evenings. But it smells like him—fresh and masculine, like cedarwood and that cologne he wears sometimes at work.

I close the door behind me and just… stand there.

It’s strange being here. Familiar, but not.

I’ve seen James in meetings, on calls, in the breakroom, laughing with clients. I’ve sat across from him a hundred times. But this? This is different. This is his world, without him in it.

I roll my suitcase into the living room. The couch is dark grey, modern. There’s a soft throw blanket folded perfectly on the armrest. A book on the coffee table—The Art of Stillness—and beside it, a half-empty candle.

I smile to myself. Somehow it makes sense. He always seemed like the type who thinks a lot but says little. Deep waters.

The bedroom is simple. Clean white sheets, a midnight-blue duvet, two pillows fluffed and aligned. The bed looks barely slept in.

I drop my bag and sit on the edge.

This isn’t a hotel. This is James’s bed.

I shake the thought away.

Don’t go there.

I walk into the kitchen instead. Everything’s spotless. Minimal. The fridge hums gently and is stocked with just enough—milk, eggs, some fruit, leftover takeout in a white box with his name written on it.

It feels… personal.

I pour myself a glass of water and lean against the counter.

This was supposed to be temporary. Just a few nights until my landlord fixes the ceiling. But the space is already getting under my skin. It’s not just that it’s quiet—it’s that it’s his quiet.

I wander back to the living room and sink into the couch. The cushions are soft, lived-in. I pull the blanket over my legs and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

It’s only Monday.

He won’t be back until Sunday.

I have six nights here. Six mornings. Six evenings of silence and space and… his presence, even when he’s not here.

I look over at the bookshelf in the corner. It’s small, neat—clearly curated. Fiction, some philosophy, a few travel guides. I trail my fingers across the spines. Norwegian Wood. The Body Keeps the Score. Into the Wild.

I pause when I find a notebook tucked between two books. Leather-bound, unmarked.

I shouldn’t open it.

I really shouldn’t.

But I do.

It’s filled with notes—ideas, thoughts, fragments of writing. His handwriting is tight and careful, almost too neat to be spontaneous. I read a sentence out loud, barely a whisper:
“You don’t always need words to feel something real.”

I swallow.

Why does that feel so true?

I slide the notebook back and turn away, heart beating a little too fast.

Back on the couch, I curl into the blanket and close my eyes.

It’s just the first day.

I’ll adjust.

But as I lie there, trying to nap, my mind drifts to his voice. The way he said “make yourself at home.” The way his fingers always tap softly on the desk when he’s thinking. The small scar on his hand that I noticed once during a presentation.

Little things. Tiny, stupid things.

But they add up.

And now I’m here.

In his space.

Wrapped in his blanket.

Trying not to imagine what it would feel like to have him beside me.

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