"I still can't believe you accidentally gave him vampire porn," Cleo says as we climb the stairs to our apartment, her voice echoing off the concrete walls.
Then she grins, adjusting her bag strap. "Though I have to admit, Professor Dimples handled it pretty well. Another guy might have made you read the whole thing out loud just to watch you squirm."
"Don't call him Professor Dimples."
"Why not? It's accurate. Those dimples could probably end wars." She nudges my shoulder. "Speaking of which, should you feel guilty about noticing his forearms? Because you definitely noticed his forearms."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sophie, you came out of his office looking like you'd been hit by a very attractive truck. Your pupils were dilated and everything."
Cleo stops walking, studying my face with the intensity of someone conducting a psychological evaluation.
"It's okay to be attracted to someone who isn't Adrian, you know. In fact, it's healthy."
"I'm not attracted to—" I start, then stop. Because lying to Cleo is pointless, and lying to myself is getting exhausting. "Okay, maybe I noticed that he's... aesthetically pleasing."
"Aesthetically pleasing," Cleo repeats with obvious amusement. "Is that what we're calling it when a man makes you forget how to form complete sentences?"
"He has nice forearms. That's not a crime."
"No, but it is progress." Her expression turns more serious. "Sophie, there's nothing wrong with being attracted to someone who treats you with basic human decency. After Adrian's psychological warfare, kindness probably feels revolutionary."
We reach our floor, and I'm about to respond when the conversation dies in my throat.
Our door stands ajar.
Not wide open, not obviously tampered with, just a thin slice of darkness visible through the gap where it should be firmly closed and locked.
"What the actual fuck," Cleo whispers, her hand shooting out to grab my arm hard enough to leave marks. "Did you lock it this morning?"
"Of course I locked it!" I hiss back, my heart already hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest entirely. "I always lock it. You know I always lock it."
"Then someone's in our apartment," Cleo breathes, and the words hit like a physical blow.
Someone's in our apartment.
The thought ricochets around my skull, bringing with it every horror movie I've ever seen, every true crime podcast I've ever listened to, every worst-case scenario my anxiety-prone brain has ever conjured.
We press ourselves against the hallway wall like discount spies, both of us breathing hard enough that we're probably giving away our location to whoever's inside.
"What do we do?" I whisper, my voice coming out higher than usual. "Do we call the police? Do we run? Do we pretend this isn't happening and go sleep in the library?"
"I don't know!" Cleo's hands shake as she fumbles with her phone, scrolling through contacts with frantic energy. "Lobby security? No, wait, they're useless. Maybe I should call Ayden?"
"What's Ayden going to do?" I whisper-scream, probably loud enough to alert whatever psychopath is rifling through our belongings. "Text the intruder to death? 'Hey bro, stop stealing our shit, it's not cool'?"
"He's big!" Cleo protests weakly. "He lifts things! Heavy things!"
"He's twenty minutes away and probably high!"
"Okay, okay, you're right. Ayden's not exactly rapid response material." Cleo takes a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. "We need to be smart about this. Strategic."
"Strategic," I repeat. "Right. What's the strategic approach to home invasion?"
"I don't know! I'm a literature major, not a Navy SEAL!"
We creep toward our door like we're approaching a live bomb, every footstep careful and deliberate.
The hallway suddenly feels endless, and I'm hyperaware of every sound—our breathing, the distant hum of someone's television, the way the floorboards creak under our feet.
"Wait," Cleo whispers suddenly, darting toward the hallway utility closet. "I have an idea."
She yanks the door open and emerges with a baseball bat that she brandishes like a medieval weapon, her grip white-knuckled and determined.
I stare at my best friend in complete bewilderment. "Where the fuck did you get that?"
"Ayden left it here after his intramural season!" Cleo clutches the bat like it's Excalibur and she's about to fight dragons. "I forgot we had it!"
"You forgot we had a BASEBALL BAT?" My voice cracks with disbelief. "How do you forget we own a weapon?"
"It was behind the vacuum cleaner! I never look behind the vacuum cleaner!"
"Oh my God, we could have been murdered in our sleep this entire time and our only defense was hidden behind cleaning supplies!"
"Focus, Sophie!" Cleo positions herself like she's about to storm the beaches of Normandy. "We're doing this on three."
"Doing what exactly? Are we going in swinging? Are we announcing ourselves? Do we have any kind of plan beyond 'hit intruder with sports equipment'?"
"We're going to burst in there and scare the shit out of whoever's stupid enough to break into our place," Cleo declares with more confidence than the situation probably warrants. "Element of surprise."
"This is insane."
"This is survival." Cleo takes a deep breath, raising the bat above her head. "One... two..."
This is how I die, I think wildly. Not in some dramatic literature-professor-related scandal, but because my best friend decided to cosplay as a home security system.
"THREE!"
We burst through the door together, Cleo wielding her bat like a berserker warrior, me armed with nothing but academic anxiety and a full-throttle scream that probably violated several noise ordinances.
And freeze.
The bat slips from Cleo's grip, clattering to the floor with a sound like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
"Holy shit..." Cleo breathes, and I can't tell if it's fear or shock or something else entirely.
Adrian Lewis stands in our living room, hands loosely tucked in his pockets, examining the photos on our bookshelf with casual interest like he's browsing a museum exhibit.
He's dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt that somehow looks both effortless and expensive, and he turns at our dramatic entrance with that familiar predatory smile spreading across his face.
The sight of him hits like a physical blow.
Five months of carefully constructed walls, five months of telling myself I was over him, five months of building a life that didn't revolve around his approval, and he's standing in my living room like he has every right to be here.
"Nice place," he says, those storm-gray eyes locking onto mine with laser focus. "Would you like to show me your room, princess?"
The endearment hits like a dart dipped in memory, and I realize with devastating clarity that no amount of time or distance or rational thought has prepared me for this moment.
Adrian Lewis is back. And I have absolutely no idea if I'm strong enough to survive him again.