Knock knock. Knock knock knock.
I exhale sharply, push myself up, and walk to the door. "Who is it?" I asked from beside the door not opening it yet. I wouldn't have to do this if my landlord installed peep hole doors instead of this cheep shit.
A deep voice I know too well answers, "Open the door."
I groan. "Are you holding a gun?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to shoot me?"
"No."
"Then who are you planning to shoot?"
A long, irritated sigh is heard, before he says, "Open the door. Why are you always like this?"
I unlatch the door and crack it open a few inches.
Ilay stands there in dark jeans and a black button-up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tattooed forearms on full display. He's holding a bouquet of red roses in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He tilts his head slightly, listening to the podcast still playing behind me."...and remember: men drain your energy—"
He raises an eyebrow. "What the hell are you listening to?"
"It's a meditation podcast."
"About hating men?"
"Got a problem?"
He looks past me at the candles. "And what's with all the candles? Are you a witch?"
"Yes," I say flatly. "I just finished a summoning ritual to bring you here. Step inside so I can slit your throat on my altar and use your blood for sacrifice."
He smirks. "I can't believe I'm falling for a man hating woman who also practices witchcraft. But hey, love doesn't discriminate."
I open the door wider, eyeing the roses. "Why did you bring those?"
"To brighten your morning."
"If you wanted to brighten my morning, at least get some yellow flowers or something. Red kind of sours my mood."
Without hesitation, he turns and tosses the entire bouquet down the hallway. It lands with a soft thud somewhere near the stairs.
I gape at him. "I didn't say I hated them. Why would you throw them?
"You said they sour your mood," he interrupts, turning back to me with that infuriating smirk. "And I want to be in your good graces." He pauses. "May I come in?"
I narrow my eyes at the briefcase. "What's in the bag? A bomb?"
He lets out a gentle chuckle, "Look," I continue, crossing my arms. "If you're planning to kill me, at least leave my body intact."
He bends toward me, closing the space, and I can't help but retreat, his voice a quiet, intimate brush against my senses. "I'm not trying to kill you. And there's no bomb in this bag. In fact, you're going to love what's in this bag." He straightens, tilting his head. "So again. May I come in?"
I scoff and step aside.
He has to duck his head to get through the doorway. Once inside, he looks around slowly, taking in the cramped space, the peeling paint, the second-hand furniture. I love it especially. It turns into a bed when you pull it out. My kitchen sits right behind said furniture. Tiny but clean. The only thing making the room feel so small right now is the gangster standing inside it.
"So this is where you stay," he says, scanning the room. "It's like a little rat burrow."
