THE PACKAGE HOSTAGE

Since Arthur moved into this building, I've been robbed of my peace and sleep. If it is not loud music threatening to jump out of the speakers, it will be ladies making unholy sounds during silent moments.

It was practically impossible to think for five minutes without being interrupted by his girls. Complaining to the owner would be pointless and moving out was not an option because I do not have the necessary funds to rent an apartment.

"—and I am done pretending this is normal," I said, jabbing a finger at his chest before I could stop myself. "Four nights this week. Four. You realize actual humans need REM sleep to function?"

"You keep counting. I'm flattered." He leaned against his doorframe, arms crossed, infuriatingly unbothered by the fact that I'd cornered him in the hallway at eight in the morning, both of us still in yesterday's clothes for entirely different reasons. "Didn't peg you for a stalker."

"I'm not a stalker, I'm a victim. There's a difference."

"Victim of what, exactly? Good acoustics?"

"Victim of you thinking this building is your personal — I don't even know what to call it. Frat house. Brothel. Whatever this is."

"Careful." His voice dropped, quieter than his usual drawl, and something flickered behind his eyes that didn't match the smirk still sitting on his mouth. "You don't know the first thing about what happens behind that door."

"I know exactly what happens behind that door. The whole floor knows."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then explain it to me." He tilted his head, and for a second it wasn't a joke anymore — it was a dare, sharp-edged, like he wanted me to say it out loud and be wrong. "Go on. Tell me what you think you know, Ann."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out that didn't sound stupid the second I imagined saying it, and he watched me realize that in real time, which made it worse.

"That's what I thought," he said, and pushed off the doorframe like the conversation was over.

"This isn't over."

"You keep saying that. It's never once been true."

That was when the elevator doors at the end of the hall groaned open, and a delivery guy in a wrinkled uniform stepped out, scanner in hand, already scowling at his clipboard like the whole building had personally wronged him.

"Package for — " he squinted at the label, " — Arthur. 4B."

Adrian, known to Ann as Arthur, went very still.

"That's him," I said, before I could think better of it, pointing at him with the same finger I'd just been jabbing into his chest. Petty. Automatic. I regretted it approximately one second later, when the delivery guy held the box out toward him and he didn't reach for it — didn't move at all, actually, his eyes fixed on the box like it had teeth.

"Sir?"

"I—" Arthur started, and stopped.

The hesitation lasted less than two seconds. It was still the longest I'd ever seen him go without an answer for anything.

"He's not home right now," I heard myself say, stepping half in front of him, some reckless, spiteful impulse taking the wheel before my brain caught up. "I'll sign for him. I'm his neighbor."

"Ann," He said, low, a warning wrapped around my name.

"I'm being neighborly." I smiled at the delivery guy, who clearly did not care about any of this and just wanted his scanner signed. "Right here."

I scrawled something illegible on the screen. The driver shoved the box at me — heavier than it looked, no return address, no logo, taped shut like whoever packed it didn't trust the world — and walked off toward the stairs without a backward glance.

I turned around holding it like a trophy and Arthur was no longer smirking.

"Give me the box, Ann."

"Ask nicely."

"I'm not asking twice."

"Funny. You've never once asked me anything the first time either." I hugged it tighter against my chest, mostly to see what he'd do, and immediately understood I'd underestimated exactly how much he cared, because he took one full step toward me, close enough that I had to tip my head back to keep looking at him, and every trace of the lazy playboy act was gone from his face.

"You have no idea what you're holding," he said quietly. "And I need you to hand it to me before you find out."

"Then tell me what it is."

"I can't."

"Then I'm not giving it back."

Something shifted behind his eyes — not anger, not quite. Closer to panic, controlled so tightly it barely showed, except I'd spent three weeks learning exactly what his face looked like when the mask slipped, and this was it.

"Ann," he said with urgency and seriously, "that box just made you a target. You don't want to find out what it is about.”