Extended Stay
"His roommate's mother visits for a few days after her surgery. Weeks pass. Gratitude becomes comfort becomes something neither of them expected."
She was supposed to stay three days.
That's what Marcus told me when he asked if his mom could crash in our spare room after her knee surgery. "Just a few days, bro. Until she can handle the stairs at her place."
That was six weeks ago.
Patricia Chen is not what I expected.
I'd pictured someone frail, needing help with everything. Instead, she's fierce—a former restaurant owner who raised three kids alone after her husband left. At forty-nine, she's softer now, her body settling into a comfortable fullness, but there's still steel in her spine.
She just can't do stairs.
"I'm not an invalid," she tells me the first morning, hobbling to the kitchen on her crutches. "I can make my own breakfast."
"I know you can." I slide a plate of eggs toward her anyway. "But Marcus would kill me if I let you."
She glares at me. Takes the plate. Eats every bite.
"These are good," she admits. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"YouTube, mostly."
"Hmph." But there's a smile hiding at the corner of her mouth.
Week One
Marcus works twelve-hour shifts at the hospital. Residency is brutal—he's barely home. Which means Patricia and I are thrown together more than either of us expected.
We develop a routine.
Mornings, I make breakfast before leaving for my remote job. Afternoons, I check on her between calls—refilling her water, helping her with the heating pad, keeping her company when the pain gets bad.
Evenings, we eat dinner together. She tells me about running the restaurant, about raising Marcus and his sisters, about building a life from nothing after the divorce.
"I was thirty when he left," she says one night. "Three kids under ten. No money. No family nearby." She shrugs, a gesture that makes her breasts shift beneath her robe. "But what choice did I have? You do what you have to do."
"You raised good kids."
"I raised survivors." She looks at me with those dark, knowing eyes. "What about you, Tyler? What's your story?"
I tell her about my parents, still married, still kind. About my boring middle-class upbringing. About feeling like I never had to fight for anything and not knowing if that made me lucky or soft.
"Lucky," she says firmly. "And soft is just another word for kind. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Week Two
Her physical therapy starts, which means I drive her three times a week. In the car, she controls the radio—old R&B, Motown classics. She sings along under her breath, and I pretend not to notice.
"You're a good driver," she says after one session.
"Thanks?"
"My husband was a terrible driver. Always rushing, always angry." She looks out the window. "It's nice to be with someone who takes their time."
I'm not sure we're talking about driving anymore.
Week Three
Marcus gets accepted to a rotation in another state. Two months of specialized training, great for his career.
"Go," I tell him. "I can handle things here."
"Are you sure? My mom—"
"I've got your mom. Don't worry."
He hesitates, then nods. "She likes you, you know. More than she likes most people."
"I like her too."
He doesn't hear what I'm not saying.
Week Four
Patricia starts walking without crutches. Short distances, careful steps, but progress.
To celebrate, she insists on cooking dinner.
"You've been feeding me for a month," she says. "Sit down. Let me work."
I sit at the kitchen island and watch her move around the space. She's wearing loose linen pants and a flowing top, her hair pinned up messily. The afternoon light catches the silver threads, the soft curve of her cheek.
"You're staring," she says without turning around.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." She glances over her shoulder. "I haven't been stared at in a long time. It's... nice."
The air changes. Neither of us acknowledges it.
Dinner is incredible—Sichuan fish, homemade noodles, vegetables I can't identify but want more of. We eat at the table like an old married couple, trading stories, laughing at nothing.
After, we settle on the couch with wine. A movie plays that neither of us watches.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Anything."
"Why don't you have a girlfriend? You're handsome. You're kind. You can cook." She tilts her head. "What's wrong with you?"
I laugh. "Nothing, I hope. I just... I don't connect with people my age. They seem so focused on things that don't matter. Climbing ladders. Performing their lives online." I shrug. "I want something real."
"And you haven't found it?"
"Not yet." I meet her eyes. "Maybe I wasn't looking in the right places."
Week Five
She starts sleeping in my room.
It happens accidentally at first. A nightmare—she calls out, and I come to check on her. She asks me to stay until she falls asleep. I do. In the morning, she's curled against my side, and neither of us mentions it.
The second time is intentional. She knocks on my door at midnight.
"I can't sleep. Can I—"
"Yeah. Come in."
She slides into my bed like she belongs there, her body warm and soft against mine. We don't do anything. We just... hold each other.
"This is inappropriate," she murmurs against my chest.
"Probably."
"You're my son's roommate."
"I know."
"I'm forty-nine. You're twenty-four."
"I can do math."
She lifts her head to look at me. In the darkness, I can barely make out her features, but I can feel the weight of her gaze.
"Why don't you care about any of that?"
"Because I care about you more."
Week Six
It happens on a Sunday.
Rain against the windows. Nowhere to go. She's cooking lunch and I'm helping, and our hands brush reaching for the same spice, and suddenly we're standing very close.
"Tyler."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to kiss you. Unless you stop me."
I don't stop her.
Her mouth is soft, tentative at first, then hungrier as I respond. She tastes like the ginger she was cutting, like the tea she drinks every morning. Her body presses against mine—full breasts, soft stomach, generous hips—and I wrap my arms around her like I've been waiting my whole life to hold her.
"Bedroom," she breathes. "Now."
I carry her.
It's not far, but she still laughs—surprised, delighted, pressing kisses to my neck as I walk. I lay her down on my bed and stand there for a moment, just looking.
"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"You're beautiful."
"I'm old and fat and—"
"You're beautiful." I lean down and kiss her again. "And I'm going to show you."
I undress her slowly, kissing each inch of skin as it's revealed. Her shirt. Her bra—functional cotton, straining to contain her breasts. Her pants, careful around her healing knee. Her underwear, last, because I want her trembling by the time I get there.
She is.
"Please," she whispers.
I settle between her thighs and take my time.
She comes twice before I even undress.
By then she's begging, pulling at my clothes, desperate to feel me. When I finally sink into her, we both groan—relief, connection, the end of weeks of pretending.
"Oh God," she breathes. "Tyler—"
"I know." I move, and she moves with me, and we find a rhythm that feels like coming home. "I know."
We're slow at first, savoring. Then faster, harder, as the need builds. Her nails dig into my back. Her thighs clamp around my waist. Her body arches, shakes, and she cries out as she comes again.
I follow her over the edge.
After, she traces patterns on my chest, her head on my shoulder.
"Marcus can never—"
"I know."
"This isn't... I don't do this. I've never..."
"I know." I pull her closer. "Neither have I."
"What happens when I'm better? When I can go home?"
I think about the empty apartment. The silence. Going back to before.
"Then you go home," I say slowly. "And I come over for dinner. And you come here on weekends. And we figure it out."
"You want that? Something real?"
"I want you. Everything else is just logistics."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she laughs—soft, wondering.
"You know what I thought, when Marcus first told me you'd take care of me?"
"What?"
"I thought: this poor kid is going to regret this. Six weeks with a broken old woman?"
"And now?"
She lifts her head, kisses me softly.
"Now I'm the one who never wants it to end."
Later
Marcus comes back. He notices something different—the way we look at each other, maybe. The way she touches my arm when she passes.
He doesn't say anything at first. Then, one night:
"You make her happy."
I freeze. "Marcus—"
"I'm not stupid, Tyler." He sighs. "I'm also not blind. I've never seen her smile like this. Not since I was a kid." He meets my eyes. "Whatever this is—just don't hurt her. She's been through enough."
"I won't."
He nods. That's that.
Patricia moves out two weeks later—back to her apartment, her life. But we don't end.
Three years in, she stops being "Marcus's mom" and starts being my partner. My person. The woman I want to grow old with.
The extended stay never really ended.
I think it was always supposed to be permanent.