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I stop by my apartment to pack an overnight bag since I’m going to stay at Rage’s tonight. It’s our first sleepover at his place and I can’t decide if I’m nervous or excited. Probably both. Nervous because I don’t know what to expect. What his apartment is like, where anything is, or if I’ll be comfortable.

At the same time, there’s an edge of excitement because we’re starting to get more intimate, and I’m not talking about the bedroom, though that’s happening too. But we talk a lot, have begun making plans for future dates and adventures, and it feels like what started as a physical attraction is turning into something else. Something genuine.

That’s why I have to tell him about my past.

Tonight.

“There you are, dear!” My neighbor, Mrs. Carbione, comes running out with a smile, holding a package. She’s eighty-five and keeps me updated on everything going on in the building when I’m not home. “The mailman dropped this off. I’ve been watching for you, didn’t want anyone to walk off with it. You know how the kids in the building can be.”

“I do,” I say, taking it from her. “Thank you for holding on to it. I wonder what it is.”

“Didn’t you order anything?”

I try to remember if I did—sometimes I get a little crazy online shopping. But not the last week or two. “I don’t think so.”

I definitely didn’t order anything, so I study the package suspiciously.

She glances at me. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I’m just curious what it is.” I scoop up the package. “See you later, Mrs. C!”

I let myself into my apartment and disarm my fancy new alarm. I stare at the package warily. Should I open it or bring it to Rage’s place and open it with him?

Just thinking that makes me want to roll my eyes. I’m not the damsel in distress type, but I’m starting to feel paranoid and it’s ridiculous. Whatever this is, it came addressed to me, via the United States Postal Service.

The only weird thing is that there’s no return address, just like the last one, and with a grunt of frustration, I decide not to wait. I rip open the package and inside is a black satin stuffed heart. Something you might see on Valentine’s Day, except in black.

No note, no nothing. Just a black heart.

Fucking Roger.

Is he trying to be funny, insinuating my heart is black? That’s hilarious.

Not.

I scowl, tossing it across the room.

He’s still sulking, I guess.

There’s a part of me that wants to call him right now and ask him what the fuck is wrong with him. But what good is giving him the attention he obviously wants?

Unless…what if it’s not Roger?

I just can’t think of anyone else who would send me these weird gifts? First, the black roses, now the black heart. Is someone making a statement about me? My inner punk rocker loves all things black, and Roger knows that, so this has to be him. If it was someone from my past, they wouldn’t waste time with roses and hearts.

And I’ll be damned if I let Roger ruin my evening.

I’m humming as I walk into the bedroom and grab an overnight bag out of the closet.

Roger is being a pain in the butt, and if this behavior continues I may have to call him out on it. Or let Rage do it.

That makes me smile. Roger would probably piss in his pants if Rage approached him in a threatening way. I’d pay money to see that. Maybe I will let Rage handle it. It’s not that I can’t, but I don’t want any negativity in my life.

I’m finally happy and my brain is undoubtedly unused to that feeling, so it’s fighting back with a random psychological thing that’s above my pay grade.

Refusing to give Roger so much as another second of thought, I pack up clothes for work tomorrow, shorts and a T-shirt in case we want to watch a movie or something, and my toiletries. I throw in a pair of shoes, extra underwear, and my chargers. Then I sling the bag over my arm and head to the living room. I grab my purse, take out my keys, arm the alarm, and lock the door behind me.

“Hey, princess.” Rage opens the door with a smile and leans down to kiss me.