I stand in my bedroom for another minute with my hands on my hips, staring at absolutely nothing.
My skin is done. My hair is done. My excuses are running out.
I smooth lotion over my arms, tug the oversized T-shirt down over my shorts, and take one last look at myself in the mirror—bare-faced, hair loose and damp, comfortable. Normal.
Then I can’t stretch it anymore.
I step out of my bedroom and walk into the mainliving area.
My apartment opens up the second you leave the hallway—high ceilings that make the space feel big, tall windows that pull in light even when the day is gray, an open concept living area and kitchen with a wide island separating the spaces without closing them off.
The kitchen is clean now—my frantic earlier work still evident in the clear counters and the closed dishwasher. The living area looks lived-in but presentable: couch facing the TV, a few shelves with books and framed photos. The whole place has that New York trick of being both efficient and somehow airy.
I expect Antonio to be on the couch. Or standing by the window. Or leaning against the island. Or—something.
He isn’t.
I frown before I can stop myself.
The couch is empty. No jacket. No shoes. No tall, too-present man making my apartment feel small.
I turn my head, scanning the kitchen, the island, the little sitting corner by the window. Not that there’s anywhere to hide in here.
My eyes narrow in irritation.
I backtrack down the hallway, knock on the bathroom door. When there’s no answer, I turn the knob and find it still slightly foggy from my shower, but empty. I step back into the hallway and stop at the spare bedroom. I glance in.
Bed neatly made. No sign of him. No bags. No anything.
I exhale sharply and walk back toward the living area, confused now.
Did he leave?
He wouldn’t. Not after everything he said. Not after insisting—
The sound of my front door opening cuts through my thoughts.
I freeze.
Antonio steps in, holding two duffel bags. He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then stops when he sees me.
And I see the exact moment he has to make an effort not to look.
His gaze starts to dip—toward my bare legs—then catches and drags itself back up to my face like it’s on a leash.
I curse myself immediately. Why did I wear shorts?
I fold my arms across my chest on instinct, even though it doesn’t change what’s visible. It just makes me feel less… exposed.
“What are you doing?” I ask because my brain is still catching up to the fact that he is back in my apartment.
His eyes flick over me once, then away again. “Getting some stuff.”
My eyes narrow. “How did you leave and come back in without being buzzed in?”
Antonio’s mouth tightens. “I tested your security. I wanted to know if you’re as safe as you think you are.”
I stare at him. “So you just walked out and walked back in, and no one stopped you?”
