I push through my front door, the quiet of my apartment wrapping around me like a blanket, but it does little to settle the nervous energy still buzzing from the biker's bold moves today. His hazel eyes and that low, teasing "I *will* see you again" keep looping in my head as I drop my keys on the entry table and set The Grid: Book 2 and Song of Russian Ice and Secrets on the kitchen counter. My heart's finally slowing, but I'm still kicking myself for how oblivious I was all day—naive, letting a stranger slip into my orbit without noticing. I lock the door behind me, double-checking the bolt, and glance out the window one last time. The street's empty, just like it was when I pulled into the driveway. He kept his promise. No motorcycle, no leather-clad phantom.
I kick off my shoes and pad into the living room, flicking on a lamp to chase away the dusk creeping in. The apartment's cozy—bookshelves stuffed to the brim, a soft gray couch piled with throw pillows, and my record player hooked up to a Bose surround sits in the corner. I need something to ground me, so I head to it, flipping through my vinyl collection until I pull out a well-worn copy of Vilvaldi next to the book The Road Less Traveled. I set the needle down, and the familiar crackle gives way to the bright, crisp notes of Spring. It's not Tchaikovsky, but it's close enough to keep the day's soundtrack alive in my head.
Sinking onto the couch, I tug a blanket over my lap and try to shake the unease. I grab Song of Russian Ice and Secrets from the counter, figuring a dive into Peter the Great's court and Tarakova's intrigue might pull me out of this spiral. But as I crack open the book, my eyes keep drifting to the window, half-expecting to see a glint of chrome or hear that low rumble. Nothing. I huff, annoyed at myself, and force my focus to the page, but the words blur. All I can think about is how I didn't notice him in the coffee shop or the bookstore until he was right there, paying for my stuff like some mysterious benefactor.
I set the book down and head to the kitchen, needing to do something with my hands. I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, pulling a box of chamomile tea from the cabinet. While the water heats, I lean against the counter, staring at the books he paid for. It's weirdly intimate, knowing he saw my picks—gritty sci-fi and lush historical romance. Did he notice? Did he care? The kettle whistles, snapping me out of it, and I pour the steaming water over a tea bag, the floral scent calming my nerves a bit.
Cup in hand, I wander back to the couch, Vivaldi's strings now dancing through Summer's warmer tones. I sip the tea, letting it soothe the edges of my frayed thoughts, and grab my phone. Part of me wants to text my best friend, Lena, and spill everything—how this guy turned my day into a bizarre, flirty chase—but I hesitate. It sounds crazy, even to me. Feeling silly but also like I need to make sense of it. Who is he? And why am I half-hoping he's not bluffing about showing up again?
I set the phone down and pick up the book again, determined to focus.
The music swells, the tea warms my hands, and I start to relax, the apartment feeling like my sanctuary again. But as I turn the first page of Song of Russian Ice and Secrets, a small part of me—a reckless, curious part—wonders where he's riding off to now and when, or if, those hazel eyes will find me again…