By the time we got back to the townhouse, the fog had rolled in thick enough to blur the streetlights outside into pale gold smudges.
Martin stood in the foyer looking around carefully while I locked the door behind us.
"Well," he said softly, "this is significantly nicer than sleeping on Michael's couch while being screamed at by children."
"You say that now," I replied, hanging my coat up. "Wait until you discover the emotionally haunted atmosphere."
He smiled faintly at that.
The thing I noticed first about Martin was how little he owned.
One small duffel bag.
One faded backpack.
That was it.
No boxes. No dramatic pile of belongings. No evidence of permanence.
Just enough possessions to survive being temporary.
"I'll show you the guest room," I said.
He followed me upstairs quietly.
The room itself was simple but comfortable — large windows, muted gray walls, neatly folded blankets at the foot of the bed. Elliott had hired some obscenely expensive interior designer years ago who insisted the entire house needed to feel "architecturally serene."
Personally, I thought it mostly looked like a very wealthy therapist's office.
Martin set his bag down carefully near the dresser.
"This is perfect," he said.
"You don't have to lie to me."
"No, seriously." He looked around the room again. "You'd be amazed what starts feeling luxurious after enough emotional disasters."
That got a laugh out of me.
He had a strange kind of charm. Dry. Slightly chaotic. Like he found humor first and processed emotions later.
"I'll grab you towels," I said.
"Look at this," he replied dramatically. "Already better service than my last relationship."
I shook my head and headed back downstairs.
A couple hours later, I heard the front door unlock.
Elliott.
I immediately looked up from the kitchen island where I'd been pretending to answer emails for the last twenty minutes.
The second he walked inside, I could tell he was exhausted.
Not regular tired.
Something deeper than that.
His shoulders sagged beneath his coat like even standing upright had become an inconvenience.
He dropped his keys onto the counter and rubbed both hands over his face.
"Today was absolutely fucking killer," he muttered.
Then finally, after a long breath:
"But we signed the deal with Adrian James."
I blinked.
"You did?"
Elliott nodded once, too tired to even fake enthusiasm.
"The Napa expansion is happening."
For a moment, genuine excitement cut through the heaviness between us.
"Oh my God," I said immediately. "Elliott, that's huge."
Years of work.
Years of planning.
Television investors. Meetings. Financial negotiations. Endless stress.
This was the kind of thing he'd wanted for a long time.
I smiled.
"Okay, then we should celebrate."
Elliott was already loosening his tie.
"Jonathan—"
"No, seriously," I said. "Let's go out somewhere. Grab dessert. Wine. Something."
For one brief second, I thought maybe this could become one of those nights couples remembered years later.
The kind where life finally gives you something good after months of exhaustion.
But Elliott just looked tired.
Not annoyed.
Not cold.
Just deeply, completely drained.
"After everything today," he said quietly, "I genuinely don't think I have the emotional capacity to go get dessert."
The excitement inside me deflated so quickly it almost embarrassed me.
"Oh," I said.
Elliott leaned against the counter for a moment before finally noticing someone standing nearby.
Martin had wandered halfway into the kitchen at some point, holding a glass of water awkwardly like he wasn't sure whether he was allowed to exist in the space yet.
Elliott blinked at him.
"Who's the twink?"
I closed my eyes briefly.
"Elliott."
"What?" he asked tiredly. "I'm asking."
I gestured toward Martin.
"This is Martin. He's a friend of Michael's. He's staying in the guest room temporarily."
Elliott looked at him for exactly two seconds.
"Hey."
"Hi," Martin replied cautiously.
And then Elliott disappeared upstairs toward the bedroom without another word.
A few seconds later, we heard the bedroom door shut.
Silence settled over the kitchen.
Martin stared after him for a moment.
"Wow," he said carefully. "He's not exactly one for conversation."
I let out a laugh through my nose and leaned back against the counter.
"You have absolutely no idea."
Martin glanced toward the stairs again.
"Is he always like that?"
I opened my mouth automatically to defend Elliott.
Then stopped.
Because lately?
Yes.
Lately, he was.
I looked down at the untouched bottle of wine I'd been about to open for us.
"Long week," I said finally, even though it was only Monday.
Martin nodded slowly, like he understood more than I'd actually said.
And somehow, standing there in the quiet kitchen with this stranger suddenly living in my house, I had the strange feeling that something had shifted already.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Just enough for the air to feel different.