A scream catches in my throat, too strangled to be heard.
I’m dreaming.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I force myself to breathe.
I must be dreaming.
But when I open them again, the man is still there. And coming closer.
The man crosses half of my apartment in two long strides, putting him only feet away.
Adrenaline courses through my body, yet I don’t move.
To my own humiliation, I don’t do anything.
There’s a man in my home.
Aside from the television, the lamp in the corner is the only light on. And it does little to illuminate the man in front of me.
He’s tall. I’m sitting but I can tell he’s tall. And… he’s wearing a suit.
Why is he wearing a suit?
Does that make this worse?
“Evening.” His voice is deep. But gentle. Soft even. And my brain doesn’t know how to react.
My heart is racing.
My hands are shaking.
But the rest of me doesn’t move.
“You know,” he says, as he takes a few slow steps, crossing in front of the TV. “You really shouldn’t leave your door open like that.”
My lips part, but my words get jumbled on my tongue and I have to swallow before trying again.
“I’m on the second floor,” I whisper, still trying to understand what’s happening.
He tilts his head, and it feels like he’s humoring my response, but I can’t focus on that. Because the angle allows the light to fall across his features. And…
Dark eyes. Dark brows. Nearly black hair tousled yet styled back, and sharp cheekbones outlined with a trimmed beard in the same shade.
I swallow again.
He looks like he came from a photoshoot. Or a boardroom. Or a photoshoot of a boardroom. And an inner voice is shouting at me that that should make this even scarier.
Should.
I also notice that his clothes aren’t wet, which means the rain hasn’t started. And for some reason, that saddens me. Like that detail alone seals my ruin.
This is why I’ve always been such a victim.
My instincts are broken. My mind always steers away from the important parts. Zeroing in on ridiculous details, and not on a game plan.
Keeping his body facing me, the man glances around my apartment.
I don’t know a lot about men’s suits, but I’m guessing his clothes cost more than all my belongings put together.
My stuff isn’t fancy, and it looks just as cheap as it is. A second hand couch and scuffed coffee table. The small TV on a cheap stand I had to assemble myself with an Allen wrench. My round table with one chair, tucked in the corner. And a thin stretch of island designating the divide between the living room and kitchen. A kitchen that’s more of a kitchenette, complete with laminate counters that are peeling at the edges.
I resist the urge to sigh at the sight of my phone sitting on said kitchen counter. Mocking me with the idea of calling the police, knowing I’ll never get the chance.
Not that they’ve ever helped me in the past.
My single bedroom and bathroom are on the other side of the kitchen, but darkness swallows them.
The man makes a noise in the back of his throat as he takes it all in. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Or why I should be so anxious for his approval. Like there’s anything in this sad setting to approve of. Or any benefit if one’s murderer likes their apartment.
A police siren wails outside.
Then another.
And a moment later, I watch the flash of red and blue lights bounce down through the night as cop cars speed past my building.
Slowly, I turn my gaze back to the man facing me.
He lifts a shoulder, and the edge of his mouth pulls up into a smirk.
This man is running from the cops.
He’s running from the cops and he’s standing in my living room. Like nothing is amiss. Like he just decided to take a different route home.
His body shifts and I think that maybe that’s all this will be. The police have passed by, now he can leave.
But he lifts a foot and steps closer.
Panic starts to flare brighter inside me, hitting its flash point, when another gust of wind lifts the edge of his suit jacket.
Oh god, he has a gun.
He doesn’t reach for it though. He just… lowers himself onto the couch.
My couch.
Beside me.
Once again, my mouth opens with nothing coming out.
What is he doing?
What is happening?
“I love this movie,” he says, almost to himself.
What. In. The. Hell. Is happening?
His large body fills up too much space on the couch. All my furniture is small. Small because my apartment is small. Small because it’s only ever me here.
I sit frozen, wondering if I should say something, but he keeps his focus on the tv.
Is he… is he just gonna stay here?
I start to shift, wondering if I can just get up and slip away.
“I’d rather you didn’t get up.” He doesn’t turn his head when he says it, his tone casual. But there’s no hiding the fact that it’s not a request.
My breathing picks up, as I remain facing forward. Prickles running up and down my arms.
Great, now my animal reaction decides to catch up to the situation.
There’s no question that this man is dangerous.
And he’s too close.
I never let men get this close.
My entire body starts to tremble. “Please don’t—” I cut off my plea, not wanting to put my specific fears into words.
I can hear the rustle of fabric as he starts to turn toward me, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be real.
“Relax.”
A large hand settles on my thigh, and I stiffen even more.
The weight of his palm is alarming, the heat of his touch searing me through the blanket.
His hand presses down with a little more force. “Relax.”
His tone is even gentler this time, and I try to take a steady breath.
A dark scent fills my nostrils. It’s leather and fire and cologne.
Jesus, is that him?
My eyes slip open.
He’s leaning toward me, invading my space further, and the stance should feel dominating. But there’s something in his body language, or maybe it’s something in his eyes, that makes my body obey. Makes me relax, just a little.
His gaze travels over my face, and this close, I can see a tinge of green in his eyes. They’re stunning.
His eyes move back to mine. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
When I don’t reply, he tips his head down, a command implied with the movement.
“Okay.” I mostly mouth the word, my voice too quiet to hear, but he nods anyway, a pleased look crossing his features.
Pleased that I believe him?
Do I believe him?
His hand slides off my thigh, taking the heat with him. “May I?”
May you what?!
Before I have time to start spiraling, he lifts the bowl of popcorn from the spot between us.
Oh.
Without waiting for an answer, he settles back, props his feet up on the coffee table and sets the bowl on his lap. Then, casual as ever, he drapes one arm across the back of the couch, fingers nearly touching my shoulder, like he’s here for a date and not a home invasion.
I watch as he starts to eat the popcorn, whole handfuls at a time, never dropping a single piece on himself.
I should do something.
There must be something I should do.
His jaw works as he chews, the muscles in the side of his neck flexing.
I mean I know I should leave. Or make him leave. But how?
With my eyes still on his profile, waiting for whatever’s going to happen next, I hear the character on the screen talk about courage. And I wish more than anything I had some.
“What’s your name?”
I jump when he speaks, then bite my lip. “Um… I don’t think I should tell you that.”
I see his eyes flick over in my direction. “Clever girl.”
Those two syllables bounce across my skin.
My fingers tighten around the blanket, pulling it even higher.
I can’t find this man attractive.
I really can not.
My stomach clenches and my stupid brain takes this moment to remind me that I probably look like a disheveled mess.
Not that it matters. I don’t need this intruder to think I’m sexy. In fact it’s probably better that he doesn’t. It’s probably better that I have popcorn breath and a ponytail that needs adjusting. And bangs that are going every which way since they got damp when I washed the makeup off my face before sitting down to watch my favorite movie for the four-hundredth time.
The fingers near my shoulder tap against the backrest, keeping in time with the characters on TV as they skip down the road.
This has got to be the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.
A hot as hell man walks in through my second story balcony. Strolls through my apartment with a confidence I can only dream of having. Flashes me a glimpse of his gun. Then settles in to eat my popcorn.
And… is he humming?
Sweet Mother Mary, he’s humming.
With careful, small movements, I push myself further into the corner. Trying to add any amount of distance I can between us.
I want to ask his name. Ask him what he’s running from. But I feel like the less knowledge I have, the better.
Except you’ve seen his face, my inner voice unhelpfully reminds me.
Not knowing what else to do, I stare at his profile. Watching the way the light dances off his eyes. The way his mouth opens and closes around handfuls of popcorn. The way his shoulders seem relaxed.
He seems so at ease. So… comfortable.
My lids lower in a slow blink and I force them wide.
I can’t make out the clock on the microwave from here, but I know it’s past my bedtime. I didn’t intend on staying up for the entire film because waking up at five a.m. every weekday means I go to bed early. And I haven’t been sleeping well this week. Hell, I haven’t been sleeping well the past twenty-seven years.
He chews another mouthful, and I watch the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
Maybe this really is all a dream.
Maybe I’m already in bed, sound asleep.
