Not in a chainsaw way. More like the kind of terrifying that wears thousand-dollar coats and has cheekbones sharp enough to file your taxes. The kind of terrifying that looks like he doesn’t lose arguments. Or sleep.
He pauses in the doorway, eyes flicking from the karaoke machine to the blanket fort I built with throw pillows and shame.
“What,” he says, in a voice that sounds like smoke and Russian winters, “are you doing in my apartment?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because this… This is not how I imagined meeting a hot, terrifying man.
Not in a hoodie that saysDaddy Issues. Not in one sock. Not with Whitney Houston mid-chorus behind me. And definitelynotsitting cross-legged on his couch, cradling his wine like I bought it myself.
“Hi,” I manage to squeak. “I thought this… was my best friend’s apartment.”
My voice sounds like it took a wrong turn on the way out of my throat. Slurred. Fragile. A little bit possessed.
The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just… stares. Like he’s trying to decide whether to call the cops or an exorcist.
I realize, belatedly, that I’m still clutching the wine bottle like it’s an emotional support object. The cork’s gone. My mascara is probably halfway down my cheeks. And the green face mask? Still there. Cracked in weird places. Flaking onto the couch. I look like a drunk swamp witch.
And I’m not wearing pants.
Just the hoodie. One pizza-slice sock. And probably a flash of neon underwear if I shift the wrong way.
Fantastic.
“This… this isn’t Jasper’s… place?” I ask again, even though he already answered.
He watches me in silence for a beat too long. Like he’s recalculating something.
“I lease it,” he says finally, voice clipped. “And you’re not supposed to be here.”
I nod, like that helps.
There’s a pause. A long one. The kind that fills the room with embarrassment and judgment.
And then, because my brain is a chaos factory with no off switch, I ask:
“Wait. Wait… are you Jasper’s…boyfriend?”
His eyes narrow just a fraction, and something flickers in his expression. Something sharp and nearly amused.
Almost like a smirk is threatening to exist.
But it dies before it gets to his mouth.
“No,” he says. And I swear to God, it’s thedeepestvoice I’ve ever heard. Like gravel wrapped in silk. Like he once commanded an army and didn’t raise his voice to do it.
I burp.
“Oh. Cool.” And I hiccup. “You, uh… You don’t happen to have a backup bottle of this, do you?” I wave the half-empty wine at him like an olive branch. Or a cry for help.
It sloshes. So does my dignity.
I wave a hand. Regret it instantly. The wine bottle wobbles like it’s seconds from projectile drama.
He doesn’t react. Just watches. Still as stone. Except for the eyes.
