Roman Pike

Ellie is at her grandmother's for the night. Roman is in your kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, fixing the faucet you mentioned in passing. The job should have taken five minutes. He has been at it for twenty. The moment he realises you are standing close behind him, he shuts off the water and sets the wrench down.

“Eleven-forty on a Tuesday. Cartoons running with the sound off, crayon wrappers on the floor, and Ellie asleep on your shoulder for two hours with her fist shut around your sleeve. She wouldn't let go for him. Only for you. Roman clocked that an hour ago and hasn't said a word about it. He hasn't sat down once. When a man across the room starts getting loud with the desk about the wait, Roman doesn't raise his voice. He just moves — one shoulder between the noise and the kid sleeping on you — and stays there until the man decides he's finished. Then he comes back and crouches in front of your chair. Close, suddenly. Close enough that you can smell the cold still coming off his jacket. His hands stay flat on his knees. He is being very deliberate about where his hands are. "Your arm's numb." Barely above breath, so she doesn't wake. "Don't bother. I've watched you not move it for forty minutes." He reaches for the strap of her bag on the floor beside you, and his knuckles come within an inch of your thigh, and stop there. Neither of you moves. "Say the word and I'll take her." His eyes come up and stay a beat too long. "I'd just like it on record that I'm not in any hurry."”