34
ALENA
My phone buzzes, dragging me from sleep.
I blink into darkness, disoriented, head heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from crying yourself unconscious. What time is it? The room feels wrong—too dark, too quiet, like I've slept through something important.
The screen lights up my face. Oliver: I'm outside. Brought wine. Let me in?
9:47 PM.
Fuck. I slept all day.
Another buzz: Oliver: Please? I promise I'll behave.
I groan and push myself upright, every muscle protesting. I'm still in yesterday's underwear, hair a disaster, mouth tasting like something crawled in and died. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I grab my robe from the floor and stumble downstairs, tying it as I go. My legs feel like they belong to someone else. The house is cold—colder than it should be—and the shadows in the corners seem thicker than usual. Watching.
I open the door.
Oliver stands on my porch looking like he stepped out of a cologne advertisement. Dark jeans that fit just right. White button-down rolled to the elbows. Leather jacket that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage. Hair perfectly tousled. Smile devastating enough to make grown women forget their own names.
He holds up a bottle of wine in one hand—expensive, French, the label screaming wealth—and from behind his back, he produces a single black rose with a flourish.
"For you," he says, grin widening.
I stare at it. At him. At this absurd tableau of romantic gestures that feel like they belong in someone else's life.
"A black rose," I say flatly.
"Seemed appropriate." He steps closer, invading my space with the easy confidence of someone who's never been told no. "Horror writer and all. Too much?"
"Very."
"But you love it," he says, like it's a fact.
I take the rose because it's easier than arguing. "How nice."
The sarcasm doesn't land. Or maybe it does and he just doesn't care. He laughs—this bright, easy sound that fills the space between us—and steps inside without waiting for an invitation. Just walks right in like he owns the place.
"You look like you just woke up," he observes, already making his way to my living room.
"I did."
"It's almost ten PM."
"I'm aware."
He sets the wine on my coffee table and looks around, taking in the space with the casual assessment of someone used to evaluating property. "Nice place. Very… suburban."
"That was the point."
"Different from the Kensington flat Lucy mentioned." He picks up a book from the side table, examines it, sets it down. "Fresh start?"
I close the door and lean against it, suddenly exhausted all over again. "Yeah. That one had too many ghosts."
"Metaphorical or literal?"
