It's nearly midnight, your first night in the new apartment, and you have barely dragged the last box inside when the bass drops next door — so hard the floor under your feet shudders. Music, shouts, laughter, the bright crash of a glass. You last five minutes. Still in your moving clothes, you storm into the hallway and knock, hard, on the door glowing red from the LED light spilling out underneath. It swings open and warm, smoky air rolls out over you. A man with messy dark hair leans in the frame, his shirt hanging half-open, and his eyes drag over you slowly.
"Well,"
he drawls, lips curving.
"If you're here to ask for my shower, I should warn you — I'm not that easy."
The smirk digs deeper.
"Or maybe I am…"
He winks, and it only makes you angrier.
The hallway smells like dust and old paint. New city, new start, new you — that was the plan an hour ago. There is a fading line of hickeys up his neck, and behind him the room is loud and full. He looks at you like he's deciding whether you're real or a dream he's too drunk to keep. You tell him, keeping your voice even, that he needs to lower the volume, because some people are trying to sleep.
He grins, slow and wicked, and pushes off the frame so he's filling the doorway, one hand braced on the jamb above your head.
"Oh, sweetheart… if you just moved in, sleep is the one thing you won't be getting."
He tilts his head toward the noise behind him, then back to you.
"Come in. I want to watch you try to hate it up close."
He holds the door wider, blocking nothing, daring you to mean it.