Free Rm W/a Vu by A. D. Ryan

Greyston and two people I assume to be his parents. They look nice. Loving. It’s no surprise that Greyston grew up to be such a great man.
    Tearing myself away from the happy faces in the pictures, I wander closer to the stairs,  stopping immediately when I see that door on the opposite side of the staircase. My curiosity returns.
    My hand rests on the doorknob, and just as I’m about to turn it, I realize what I’m doing. I yank my hand back, fully aware that I’ve almost invaded Greyston’s privacy. I decide to ask him about it…once I’m a little more comfortable here, that is.
    Greyston is in the kitchen preparing something to eat when I finally make my way downstairs. He hears me enter the room, turning to me with a smile. “Hey. Get everything squared away?”
    “Yup,” I tell him. “I broke down the boxes and left them in my closet, though.”
    With an arched brow, Greyston turns his head toward me as I sit at the island. “Planning a midnight move already?”
    I laugh, and a blush ravages my cheeks. “No. I just didn’t want to leave them lying about.”
    He turns back to the stove and chuckles. “Not a problem. It’s recycling day on Thursday. I’ll grab them and put them out for pick up.”
    “Thanks.” I push my stool back from the island and prepare to stand when Greyston turns around with two plates in his hands.
    His eyebrows furrow slightly. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”
    “Oh…”
    Greyston sets both plates down on the island, one in front of me and the other next to it. “It’s just, I haven’t cooked for myself in so long, and I wound up making too much. I was thinking maybe you’d like to join me?”
    Because it’s all I seem to be able to do in Greyston’s presence, I smile as wide as that creepy cat in the Alice in Wonderland reboot. “Yeah, I can stay,” I say, sitting back down and looking at the amazing-smelling pasta dish he’s prepared. “Just let me text my mom to let her know I’ll be a little longer.”
    “So,” Greyston says when I set my phone back down. “I realized yesterday after you left that we didn’t really talk about how this cohabitation thing was going to work.”
    He’s absolutely right. It never even occurred to me in between all of the inappropriateness. I’m not sure if there are questions I should ask, mainly because it’s just as rampant as it was yesterday. Good thing Greyston knows how to keep a conversation rolling, because I can’t.
    “Obviously, I want you to feel at home here. There’s a lot of shared space, and I don’t want you to feel that if I’m in a room, you can’t come in.”
    I’m just swallowing a bite of pasta when he says that, and I begin to cough after inhaling a string of linguine. Immediately, thoughts of him in the shower and me walking into the steamy bathroom fill my brain… And now I’m imagining him in his bedroom—naked—and I just come on in, because he said I should feel at home, and that’s what I do at home—walk in on people at the worst possible times.
    With my coughing fit under control, I look over at Greyston, who is a very serious shade of red. It’s good to know I’m not the only one with a terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease.
     “I’m sorry. That didn’t quite come out right. What I meant to say was—”
    I wave my hand dismissively, because if he goes into clarifying, I’m still going to transform it into something filthy. “That’s okay,” I tell him, my voice dry and raspy.
    Greyston hops up and grabs me a glass of water, watching me, concerned, as I chug it. “Are you all right?”
    I nod, setting the glass down. “Yes. Fine, thank you.”
     “I guess I just don’t want you to feel like you have to tip-toe around here. If you’re hungry at two a.m. for whatever reason, feel free to raid the fridge or pantry. If you want to have guests over, that’s fine. All I ask is no outrageous parties.”
     “Oh, yeah, of course. I’m not really one for