Author's note: This story won't have many chapters—more novella than novel. I'm not too sure about an HEA, either. But raw? Better break out the lube. Stephanie Meyer owns these characters.

Chapter One.

Undercover housekeeper?

Maid-to-order?

Bedroom engineer?

Who was I kidding? I shook out my tenth hotel bed coverlet of the morning, smoothing the heavy material free of wrinkles and straightened up with a sigh. It was only nine a.m. and already I was daydreaming about my freedom.

The job, modest as it was, had been a lifesaver. My luck had nearly run out; I'd already spent several sleepless nights in one of the local homeless shelters, fending off unwelcome sexual advances and violent drunks who seemed to find my thin cot a convenient puking station. I'd nowhere left to turn that day I'd physically plowed into one Kate McGallen exiting the Peet's Coffee shop near the shelter.

Kate was a long-forgotten friend from MU art history classes taken a thousand years ago who looked glad to see me. Catching up over a latte I couldn't afford, I admitted I'd lost both my apartment and my web design job during the same month. She'd looked stricken, then hesitated before suggesting I apply at the Hotel chain where she was the marketing director. There weren't any web designer openings at present, she allowed, but I might find something else in the interim.

Embarrassed at how much I'd revealed, I'd still been too close for comfort to becoming a regular in the soup kitchen line to ignore the unexpected opportunity for a regular paycheck. Unemployment benefits only stretched so far; mine were due to expire in a week.

I applied and based on the slim recommendation from Kate, I had won an interview that inexplicably led to me becoming a star employee in one of the MSuite Hotel's housekeeping divisions. Men as room cleaners was a novelty in this Midwestern town, possibly even a potential liability, but I was no threat. A gay man, I could look all day long at surprised buck-naked women stepping from hotel shower stalls without blinking.

The closeted human resources interviewer clearly guessed that fact about me, too, although neither of us mentioned it.

So after expressing my complete lack of interest in toilet repair and light-bulb changing routines, for which there were no openings in the engineering division anyway, when the HR guy apologetically suggested a job cleaning rooms? I snatched it up, the term grateful far too tame for how I was feeling inside.

It was one of the few times being gay had proven to be an asset during my adult life.

Turns out, I was a natural at cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, folding towels, and tucking in corners. Good at plumping pillows, too. Push too hard on a guy like me, stereotypes aside, and maid-extraordinaire pops out.

Who knew? And the not-so-diverse crew of mostly Hispanic ladies? We had the camaraderie thing going on, even though language frequently proved a barrier to some of the finer points. But it was just making beds, so I got along fine.

After nine months, I had settled into a comfortable routine and was past the point of making ends meet. I always met my daily room quota, and was often able to exceed it, earning a welcome bonus in my pay. I was satisfied with my current station in life, even if it wasn't much more than a temporary detour on the road to becoming the world-class something-or-other that was my destiny. What I may have lacked in enthusiasm, I made up for in efficiency.

Cleaning hotel rooms might have appeared to be a setback to some, but I was only twenty-eight. Still plenty of time to make my indelible mark upon the world.

My living situation had been sketchy at first, but after two months squatting in a foreclosed house without windows but within easy walking distance of my new job, I made rent and a deposit. I also knew I'd never take hot water for granted again. My new place was small but clean, the mattress and sheets salvaged from the hotel's excess inventory after a recent room renovation. I'd also picked up a couch, kitchen table, and other miscellany from sidewalk discards and the rare Goodwill run.

Content, but my constant daydreaming was symptomatic of a deep restlessness, too. I needed a distraction while I waited for the economy to recover sufficiently to resume my real life.

Around about then was the first time I saw him. Seventeen, I judged, with a smudged face and threadbare clothing, he was digging carefully into the hotel's kitchen dumpster. I watched quietly as he kicked in frustration at a rat that was sniffing at his boot heels, looking for its opportunity to dart in for a share of the leftovers. My cig had burned down to the filter. The stench of the rotting food must have overwhelmed its burning acrid odor; he hadn't noticed me watching him from the shadowed alcove.

I dropped the still-smoldering butt. He had a nice one, himself.

If I hadn't snuck up behind him, blocking his movements, such was his surprise I'm sure he'd have neatly escaped around me when I landed a soft "Boo!" in his ear.

His eyes were dazed and very young. Not scared, though. Not defiant, either. Not too long on the streets, then.

"Boy, you must be way gone." I motioned with my arm at where he'd been efficiently sorting the refuse, waiting for his denial.

"Two days," he eventually admitted, dirty hands now stuffed out-of-sight in his jacket.

"Wait here. I'll snag you some decent food from the kitchen. Lunch Cook has a thing for me," I casually explained, hoping his hunger would overcome his skittishness.

He nodded mutely, a wishful expression on his sweet features. I shot a look over my shoulder as I stepped inside the kitchen door, my eyes fierce with the command: Stay.

And swore loudly when I returned triumphantly a few minutes later with a cheese and olive fold-over and some chips: he was gone.

Never one to waste food, I tore into the gooey treat, wondering if he'd found something edible in the garbage bin after all. I myself had never sunk that low, but again it had been a close thing. He needed some help.

Resolving to keep an eye out, I took one last glance around, but nothing gave any indication he'd ever been there, let alone which direction he'd gone. I still had twelve rooms to clean for the afternoon, but maybe later there'd be time to search for him. I could easily slog the six blocks in the cold to the abandoned warehouses frequented by the homeless. I'd seen the signs of desperate living left behind by countless hopeless wanderers, the fogged bus windows barely blunting their harsh existence before I turned away each evening, resolute in my determination to never join their ranks. Although I was warm back inside the hotel corridors, I shivered again at the memory of my own narrow escape from that too-real fate.

The brick warehouses were as good a place as any to start looking for him. Seventeen and scared was young to be on the streets with winter settling into the city's deserted downtown. The air off the Missouri River heightened the wind's chill, and a kid without a heavy coat didn't stand a chance against it.

He'd thank me once he got to know me, using that softly accented voice I'd only heard the once, but liked right away.

That night, after a quick, perfunctory look around the perimeter of the warehouse sidewalks with no luck, I left, unsure myself why I was making the effort. Walking around in the dark probably wasn't my best idea, and I realized it in time to catch the express bus and scoot out of there with the daylight waning.

Might be a small-town boy from Joplin, but the City had smartened me up. The family farm was sold two generations back, so there was nothing for me to return to but parents who wouldn't welcome me. I was a man who favored having a plan, though, so I'd resume my hunt for him in a few days.

Turned-out I didn't need to wait. Two days later, same time, different cigarette, he was back in the alley behind the kitchen. Must have found something good in the earlier bin; perhaps he'd decided to add the Hotel to his regular route.

Or maybe he was simply as desperate as I'd feared becoming not-that-long-ago.

"Edward." I offered gently when I noticed his slight figure pause, harkening to the sound of my sneakers squeaking against the grime-encrusted lot.

"Wish you'd stop sneaking up on me," he grumbled, his voice catching in the cold.

"Sound hoarse. You sick?" Not that I expected him to admit it.

"Nothing like that."

"So what's your name? You got one, don't you?"

"Don't give it out to strangers." That drawl again, but more pronounced this time. I didn't think I was pushing him that hard, but I could let up.

"Too cold to be sleeping out," I heard myself saying. I waited, and my voice piped up again in the lengthening silence. "You got a blanket?"

That earned me at least a look, his eyes drifting up to meet mine. Lord, they were blue. Bluer than blue popped into my head. Apt for this one.

"Don't you mind your own business?" he snapped at me.

Must have been both of us understanding this conversation was going nowhere fast, because I sighed just as he did. "Boy…" I began again, just as he found a grin from somewhere, the movement flaking away a thin line of dirt along his jaw line. At least, I hoped it was just dirt.

"Don't lecture me, old man."

"A decade's all I've got on you," I hazarded. And about forty pounds and several IQ points, I added meanly, but only to myself.

He nodded, his disbelief coloring his gaunt features.

But we seemed to have reached a standoff. I noticed he was looking behind me with longing, as I'd maneuvered myself during our verbal sparring between him and the dumpster. Now that was a safe topic.

"Want me to try again to snare you some food? It is lunchtime."

"Don't bother, I'll just take off again."

At least he was honest. But damn, eating out of the dumpster! That was too harsh, too rough. I couldn't allow it. He was just a teenager.

"Don't be a fool. You're living on the streets, let me help."

He ran a paw through his greasy strands. Impossible to tell what color—might have been weeks since he'd seen better than a standing up dry wipe down with a dirty towel, I bet.

"Help?" he sneered. "I'm doing fine."

Involuntarily, my hand reached out and captured the sleeve of his torn, too-small faded jacket. He met my eyes, a question there I'd rather not have seen. Not from this boy, anyway. I kept my grip, but cleared up his mistake. "I have to finish my shift, but it's going to snow tonight. You want a warm place to stay? Wait for me at the bus stop on Grand Street. You can shower, and sleep on my couch. Tomorrow, you head out again. That's all I'm offering." It was the truth, but my knees still felt a little weak.

A long pause before he worked out his question, but when it came, it sent a chill down my back. "I don't do anything for free, so why?"

"What's your name?"

With that, I guessed I'd crossed some invisible line, because he sucked in a breath and using the moment, turned and sprinted away. I wondered where he'd found the energy for that move. Energy took food, and there was no doubt he'd missed plenty of meals.

With effort, I dismissed him from my thoughts and returned to my mindless tasks for the afternoon.

Since I'd no expectation of seeing him, my surprise must have been apparent when I rounded the corner after my shift to find him standing half a block down past the bus stop. Perhaps I smiled, a natural enough reaction. Whatever I did, it must have spooked him, because he used my full stop to start walking away.

"Hey!" I yelled at his back, the approaching bus catching my eye, as I moved quickly enough to wrap my hand around his left shoulder. "There's the bus. Hustle; we'll have to wait a half-hour for the next one."

"I don't have the fare," he whined, twisting to escape my grip. "That's why I'm here, to tell you I can't go."

"Fuck the fare. I've got it!" I was shouting in my agitation, waving at the driver, who knew me, and pulling fruitlessly on nameless boy's jacket. "Move!" and yanked hard enough to get him stumbling, following me as I urged him on.

The bus driver, normally one with a quick grin, just grimaced. I flashed my pass and paid the second fare, noticing for the first time just how rank my companion smelled. I decided we'd stand, and herded him to the back where there were fewer people who I recognized. "Shush," I demanded as he was rattling on about paying me back for the fare, somehow,someway. I shuddered to think of what he might be willing to do for the seven dollars.

Within forty minutes, we were mounting the stairs. I wasn't as proud of this apartment as I'd been of the previous one that I'd lost along with the City-finder web job, but it was safe enough. And I'd paid the rent two months in advance, so I felt relatively proud when I slid the deadbolt into place, my young friend looking shy and closer to fourteen in the early winter light.

"Shower first," I instructed, sounding gruff and unfriendly even to me. "I won't bother asking if you're hungry—I know the answer. Use the towels, and clean behind your ears," I finished, remembering the phrase from my mother's stock supply.

"Sure. Thanks."

"One more thing?" I headed to the kitchen and returned quickly with a folded paper grocery bag. "Get rid of those clothes. I've some you can borrow." Watching the protest form on his face, I cut him off. "You stink…." The blush that bloomed in his cheeks was prominent enough to convince me that he must be a dirty-blond to have skin that fair beneath the grit.

"Sorry." He ducked his head and fled in the direction my finger was pointing, kicking off his boots as I watched.

It wasn't until he was gone, and the sound of the shower reached my ears that I knew I'd missed my best chance. I still didn't know his name.

Picking through my closet for him, I found a pair of old jeans and sweater I'd outgrown, but kept for sentimental reasons. Now I knew why. They made a neat pile of faded denim and scratchy gray wool he'd see when he opened the bathroom door.

Meantime, I had dinner to fix. Mac-and-cheese from a box sounded good; I thought he might like some hamburger as well, or maybe I could fry eggs in butter. After my near brush with the soup kitchen, I always kept a good supply of food on hand, most of it in cans that wouldn't go bad. No one expected to ever sink low enough to need such a back-up strategy, but if the Armageddon threatened, I'd be ready this time.

Hip hitched against the counter, my spoon moved mechanically through the egg-hamburger-onion scramble that still had a few minutes of cooking left. I stooped to peer through the glass in the oven door, pleased that the cheesy noodle dish had already begun to bubble, jumping at the unfamiliar sound of another person in my small kitchen when Nameless cleared his throat.

"Jasper." The steam from the shower had hoarsened his voice again; I knew for certain he had a cold. My delight at learning his name was overshadowed by my concern.

"Nice name." I waited a heartbeat before continuing. "You need aspirin. There's milk, and a glass over the sink. Take four—the bottle's in that second drawer. How long you been fighting it?" I'd said all this without looking at him, but my tone brooked no disagreement.

"Name's Jasper. And pleased to meet you." The last was quieter; he was bent down, rifling through the drawer contents now, searching for the medicine. He didn't bother responding to my question, though.

"And dry your hair," I insisted, still sounding like my mother. "I'm turning up the heat—use that handheld hanging off the bathroom sink." I'd bought the old Conair for two dollars at the thrift shop. It wasn't as nice as the ones I carefully reset every day in hotel room after room, but it did the trick. As I listened to his bare feet slap along the wooden floor, I added, "Three minutes, Jasper. Food is ready."

The boy, sparse with his words, spared no effort on his food. I was right about the hair color. And I was right that he was fairly sick.

"I can't stay," he clarified after all but scraping the crumbs from his second heaping plate of the evening. "That was good, but I have to get back." He coughed, a discreet sound in the suddenly-quiet room.

Playing it cool, I agreed. "Yes, the empty streets are calling your name." He gave me a suspicious look, correctly guessing I was being sarcastic. "Anybody waiting for you?"

Over the hissing of the radiator, a relic from the early days of the apartment building, he hesitated over how to answer my question without outright lying to me.

"Might be," he hedged.

Not a lie, but not the truth, either. And I didn't like his answer, because I wanted him to spend the night in my warm apartment. In fact, I was going to insist he take the spoonfuls of Nyquil before I poured some hot cocoa into him and tucked him beneath the spare comforter and soft, worn sheets. Thanks to my employer, I had extra bedding for my very first overnight guest. He didn't need to know, wouldn't have cared that I'd pulled it from a shallow cardboard box in the corner, yet I was thrilled to have the luxury of back-up linens. It's the small things, as my Dad always said. Homespun wisdom that, unnoticed, had worked its way into my psyche as well.

"It's nearly seven-thirty. You probably noticed I don't have a television. Listen to the radio when I'm not reading. Let's turn in, make it an early night. I like to be up by five." I mentioned the cocoa plan as if interested in his response, but basically I steamrolled over his objections that he had places to be, people to see. Sometimes a decade can be a definite advantage when it comes to an argument. When he finally relented, he had but one question left.

"Umm, how am I going to get back?" I snorted; he knew as well as I did he had no place to return to in the morning.

"Boy, I'd feel better if you were to stay here tomorrow." I quickly flipped through a mental list of my possessions. In truth, if he took anything, I wouldn't miss it. But I didn't believe he was the thief-type. Before he could disagree with me, I hurried on with, "You need time out of the cold to loosen that sickness in your chest." His coughing had become steadier as dinner progressed; I expected he'd keep me awake until the Nyquil kicked in. "One day inside won't hurt. Plenty of extra in the cupboards for you. A couple of bowls of soup tomorrow, try the Campbell's tomato, and I predict you'll knock that cough's chokehold on you."

I watched closely as the fight went out of his eyes; he looked sleepy, the heat from the radiators and the aspirin bringing about the change in his attitude. I felt more than a little sluggish myself.

"You don't mind?" he was able to get past the yawn that threatened to swallow him before he politely covered his mouth with the back of his hand, exposing his pink palm to my gaze. Long fingers with nails that needed clipping. Tomorrow I'd leave out one of the many manicure sets I'd saved from the hotel trash, stocked only in the premium rooms. Jasper seemed the type to pick up on an obvious hint about the hygiene miss.

"S'okay," I mumbled, careful to keep the grin from surfacing.

He hesitated, but then, "Thanks, Edward. Okay if I make up the bed on the floor?"

"Couch, not the floor. Floor's got a draft from the front door," I insisted, the lie falling easily from my lips.

By the time I had the cocoa ready, and the spoon and bottle of cough meds at hand, he was already modestly covered up, his borrowed clothing folded over the back of the couch. I suppressed the brief vision of him slipping out of the denim, pants falling to his ankles, pale skin exposed. But maybe there'd be a time and a place for that thought in our future.

Our future? Who had I become? Mary Poppins? He was just a street kid with no education. I suspected I already knew his story, knew why he was living on his own, bereft of family and friends and eating from hotel garbage bins. But he hadn't offered to share that information, and tonight wasn't the time to begin asking questions, not if I wanted to earn his trust.

And I did. Want to earn his trust.

It didn't make any sense.

But well before I could figure it out, Jasper was passed out on the lumpy couch, his face nearly buried in the bunched up pillow, breathing revealing the congestion that had built up in his lungs. I sat quietly for a few minutes before for the second time in one day, my hand stole to where it did not belong, smoothing down the tangled curls in his thin, fair hair.

Now, that mess was something I could fix. The reasons for him being on the street would take more time.