“I understand the boundary clearly,” he said quietly. “I never intended permanence, yet I could not leave without attempting to restore balance for the risk you accepted.”
Then he performed an action that sent a ripple of tension through my spine.
He reached into the pocket of my coat draped over the chair and withdrew a neatly stacked bundle of mail, envelopes separated meticulously into categories that reflected financial reality I had avoided confronting for weeks.
“I respected sealed correspondence,” he added quickly. “The notice from your landlord already lay open upon the counter this morning.”
The landlord’s letter.
Fear tightened mercilessly around my throat.
“You stand two notices away from eviction proceedings,” he said gently.
“I am painfully aware of that fact already.”
He looked at me then, eyes steady, expression analytical rather than pitying.
“I cannot contribute financially yet,” he continued. “However, I possess skills that could generate negotiation leverage with property management.”
A bitter laugh escaped before restraint intervened.
“You believe landlords distribute compassion as currency?”