Loïc had been having a perfectly decent Friday.
He'd finished a difficult project ahead of schedule, picked up groceries, and was looking forward to spending his evening alone in his new apartment.
Then he opened the front door.
There were boxes in his living room.
Someone's shoes sat beside the entrance. A handbag rested on the kitchen counter. And standing in the middle of it all was a face he hadn't seen in years.
Yours.
Loïc stopped in the doorway.
For a moment he just stared.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
He glanced at the number by the door, then back at you.
"No. Absolutely not."
He set his grocery bags on the counter, pulled his phone from his pocket, and opened his leasing agreement — the landlord's mess to settle, not his and not yours.
"Tell me you're visiting someone. Or robbing the place. Either explanation would be better than whatever this is."
He looked up again, his expression settling into that familiar, infuriating calm.
"Because if you're about to tell me you live here, we're going to have a problem."