Elves
Being an actor for as long as I have comes with predictable highs and equally predictable lows. People like calling me a "veteran," but I just think of myself as someone who's been doing the same thing for decades without losing interest. A miracle, apparently.
Over the years, I earned respect from colleagues and accidental worship from newcomers who grew up watching my films. They always say I'm "professional," which I find funny—because what they actually mean is rigid, consistent, and allergic to half-assing anything.
Fine. I'll take it.
My reputation is spotless mostly because I avoid unnecessary social situations, not because I'm trying to be saintly.
Directors think of me first when they need someone who can stare down a camera with dead, tormented eyes. Thriller, horror, psychological breakdown—my usual buffet. I never asked for that branding, but I understand how pattern recognition works. People see one thing that works and repeat it until it stops printing money.
Recently, I delivered a performance everyone called "emotionally devastating." Critics loved it. Viewers cried. My inbox became a funeral home of dramatic praise. The secret? My fear of ghosts is real. Disgustingly real. I don't like the paranormal. I don't like the supernatural. I don't like anything that makes my imagination sprint off without my permission—which it does often enough, thanks.
But the more scared I was, the more roles I got. Horror King of the Decade. An ugly crown, but apparently it fits my head perfectly.
The problem is… I wanted out. Not out of acting—just out of being typecast as the nation's favorite traumatized man. I wanted to try something lighter, brighter, maybe even romantic. People always say I don't "look the part," which is strange because I look like myself and I'm perfectly capable of portraying a person in love. But logic rarely survives the entertainment industry.
This year, I decided to push back. Not politely. Not passively. I needed to prove—to myself, more than to anyone else—that the recognition I've earned wasn't an accident of bloodshot eyes and good lighting.
So I drove to the CEO's office to request—no, demand—a change. He has made plenty of money off my neuroses. It felt fair to ask for a return on investment.
When I arrived, I parked in my usual spot, stepped out, and immediately got swallowed by my thoughts—scripts, logistics, the exact phrasing of my argument, and the sixty-four possible responses he could give. I got so wrapped up in that mental noise that I swung my door open without checking my surroundings.
The horrible crrk of metal scraping metal snapped me in half.
I looked down. A luxury car. The kind that costs more than my yearly therapy budget—which is already obscene. I could afford it, but that didn't make the sight of the scratches any less painful.
I crouched to examine the damage. Clean lines. Deep enough to be a problem. My brain immediately counted the number of possible outcomes, none of which were appealing.
For a second—just one—I thought about running away. Then another thought slipped in. A stupid one. A sassy one. A petty, irresponsible one. The kind of idea I usually do not allow myself to act on.
But I did.
I grabbed a black marker from my bag. Yes, I keep one. No, I'm not explaining why. I uncapped it, leaned in, and carefully traced over the scratches. Slow, precise, patient strokes. At least my fine motor skills were doing something productive.
When I finished, I stepped back and squinted at my handiwork.
"…Passable," I muttered. "From a distance. If the person is half-blind."
I capped the marker, slipped it back into my bag, and walked toward the building with a level of confidence that definitely didn't belong to someone who had just vandalized a luxury car in reverse.
I even smiled at the security guard as I passed.
He arched a brow. He definitely saw. But he said nothing. Which was honestly the most respectful thing anyone had done for me that morning.
Josh—our CEO and my supposed best friend—was already hunched over his desk when I walked in. He didn't even look up. Typical. People think actors crave attention, but I actually prefer acknowledgment. The basic kind. The "I see you entered the room" kind. He didn't give me that.
So I retaliated in the only way I know works on him: I sat on the sofa and stared at him. Not subtly. Not politely. Just full, unblinking, laser-focused eye contact.
After a while, he finally sighed, raised an eyebrow, and gave me permission to speak without using actual words. Josh and I have survived years of friendship through this exact method.
"I want a change of image," I said, keeping my tone firm. "I need a role in a romantic comedy series—or something coming-of-age. Something with color. Something that doesn't involve blood or screaming or me crawling backward in a hallway."
Josh stared at me for a moment, the way he does when his brain is stitching a plan together. Then he grinned. That grin always means I should be concerned.
"I actually have a pending offer," he said, grabbing a binder and sitting beside me. "Hard to cast. Maybe you want to try it?"
Suspicious, I took the binder and read the title. "Hidden Confession."
Interesting.
I sat up straighter without meaning to. Of course, Josh noticed.
To hide my reaction, I raised an eyebrow and flipped through the pages, heading straight for the character section because plots mean nothing if the characters are shallow.
Vest: businessman, company on the brink of collapse, salvation tied to a wealthy investor who will only help if…
"…he marries them?" I muttered. "Bold of the woman to propose marriage."
I searched for the name.
Ken.
"Unique name for a woman," I said, catching Josh's tiny, nervous laugh.
That was my first red flag.
I kept reading—because once I start something, I don't stop until I've dissected it entirely—and then I froze.
Ken was a man.
I slowly closed the binder. Then I opened it again just to confirm my eyes weren't malfunctioning. Nope. Still a man.
"So," I said slowly, "Vest is a man. Ken is also a man. Are you telling me this is a story about two men?"
I dropped the binder onto the table. I didn't throw it; I placed it with force. There's a difference.
"I specifically asked for a romantic comedy to change my image."
"It is a romantic comedy," Josh said carefully. "But the genre is… BL."
I frowned. "BL? What is that? A… brand? A bank?"
"Boys' Love," he clarified, cringing as if waiting for me to explode.
"Oh."
My brain needed a second. Not because the concept offended me—just because it was nowhere near the trajectory of my mental roadmap.
Never, in my entire career, did I imagine my first romantic role involving another man. Actually, I'd never imagined myself in any romantic role. I've never had a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a situationship, a crush—nothing. My life has been work since I was twelve.
And now, the universe's idea of "branching out" was handing me a BL series?
The irony hit me so hard I actually laughed. A real, bewildered, borderline-unhinged laugh—sharp and sarcastic enough to echo off Josh's very expensive office walls. Being famous yet still boxed into limited options… it was so absurd I couldn't even be properly angry at first.
Josh laughed too, which was a mistake. His laughter immediately irritated me. It felt like noise I didn't ask for.
I cut mine off mid-breath and shot him a glare sharp enough to pierce drywall.
"I've brought in an enormous amount of money for this company, and this is what you're offering me?" My voice climbed with disbelief. "A role you didn't even think I should have?"
"Well, I wasn't supposed to offer it to you," Josh admitted, shrugging. "But I know how much you've dreamed of working with Director Justine Dizon, so I thought—well—I thought I'd try. I should've considered how you'd feel first. Sorry. I'll give it to someone else."
He stood up like he was actually going to walk away from me.
Absolutely not.
I grabbed his wrist, pulled him back down, and planted my hand on his shoulder to make sure he stayed put. Firmly. Probably too firmly. But restraint has never been my strength when I'm focused.
"Repeat what you just said."
"I said I'm sorry—"
"Before that."
I leaned in, unblinking, because clarity matters. And Josh knows better than to dodge clarity with me.
He exhaled. "Director Justine Dizon is the director of the series."
A grin exploded across my face so fast I felt my cheek twitch. I slapped his shoulder—harder than intended—and yanked the script back into my arms, hugging it like it was a national treasure.
"You should've led with that. I'll take the role."
Josh blinked at me, confusion knitting his eyebrows. I nodded decisively, answering questions he hadn't even formed yet.
"Are you sure? You've never had a girlfriend, let alone a boyfriend—"
"There's a first time for everything," I cut in. "I can handle it."
My tone came out sharper than expected, but determination has always sounded like that in my mouth. If I needed coaching on how to portray romantic emotions, I'd get it. If I needed to research, analyze, or imitate countless romantic films, I would. Preparation is my kingdom; there's nothing I can't dissect.
Besides—this was Director Justine Dizon.
Justine Dizon: the industry's gold standard.
Everything he touched turned into something unforgettable—films that made you cry without your permission, series that burrowed into the audience's ribs and stayed there for years. His storytelling wasn't entertainment; it was medicine. Or a wound. Or both.
Working with him wasn't just a dream. It was the finish line of a race I'd been running since childhood. His name on a project meant craftsmanship, honesty, and soul—all the things I chased relentlessly in my own performances.
I wasn't letting this pass just because the role required me to explore unfamiliar territory. Also… if my co-star happened to be handsome, that would be a nice consolation prize.
I shot Josh a triumphant smile, letting that thought simmer just long enough for him to regret ever doubting me.
He sighed—a mix of defeat, amusement, and "why am I friends with this man"—and gave a reluctant nod.
Satisfied, I stood, clutched the script to my chest, and headed for the door with purpose. My brain was already racing ahead, dissecting scenes, imagining pacing, emotionally mapping the character.
Just as I reached for the handle, the door swung open with a sharp jolt. A man about my age stormed in, radiating the kind of fury that makes the air feel charged. His jaw was set, his expression carved out of pure irritation.
Instinct took over—I stepped aside automatically. Spatial awareness has never failed me. He didn't even glance my way, just marched straight to Josh's desk like a missile with a singular purpose.
"Someone scratched my car," he barked, "and had the audacity to cover it up with a marker!"
My stomach dropped. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to piece that together.
I started inching toward the door, careful and quiet, as if sound itself could betray me. My brain was already mapping escape routes and calculating probabilities of survival.
I made it to the threshold, one foot practically in freedom, when Josh's voice cut through the tension.
"Elves."
I froze. Instantly. Every muscle in my body locked like I'd been hit with a stun gun.
"The script reading is on Monday," he said, sounding a little confused. Probably because I was standing like a statue with my back turned to him.
I gave a jerky nod, raised a trembling thumbs-up—my attempt at "casual"—and bolted.
The man's voice still echoed in my head. It had that deep, commanding resonance that vibrated in my chest. I was ninety percent sure he could kill me with just his tone. Or worse—file a lawsuit.
By the time I reached the elevator, I was panting. I leaned against the cool wall and finally inhaled like a normal human being again. Relief came in a single, heavy exhale.
Then my brain—traitor that it is—lit up with a horrifying reminder. "The parking lot has CCTVs."
The words slipped out loud before I could stop them.
A surge of panic shot through me. Evidence. Footage. Proof.
No, no, no.
I sprinted to the security office on the ground floor, knocking on the door with a level of urgency that probably qualified as suspicious in itself. My foot wouldn't stop tapping, and I caught myself biting at my thumbnail—an old habit I despise but can't always control when my mind starts racing too fast.
After what felt like years, the door opened. One of the security officers peeked out, blinking.
"Sir Elves? What brings you here?"
I gave him what I hoped was a friendly, composed smile. "Hi. Uh—actually, I just—"
"My brother told me to check the parking lot footage," someone said from behind me, cutting me off.
That same voice. Deep, steady, and entirely too close.
That baritone could command armies—or at least a very terrified actor.
I told myself it was just fear. Rational fear. Nothing poetic about it. I turned slowly, forcing my lips into the kind of smile I use at press conferences when I haven't slept in forty-eight hours.
"No rush," I said breezily. "I'll just… come back later."
I pivoted on my heel and started walking away. Calmly. Naturally. Like a perfectly innocent man who absolutely did not vandalize a luxury car with a marker.
As I passed, I caught his gaze.
He didn't say a word, but there was a flicker—something analytical, assessing.
I hated it.
I kept walking, my pace increasing with each step until it could no longer be classified as walking.
At that point, it wasn't about the money. Or the damage. It was about the unbearable awkwardness of explaining why a grown man thought a marker was a valid solution to a moral crisis.
And honestly, I wasn't ready for that conversation.
I made a beeline for the lobby, laser-focused on one goal: escape unnoticed.
The main doors were so close I could practically taste freedom—cold air, quiet, distance from responsibility. But apparently, fate had a sick sense of humor.
"Elves!"
I froze mid-stride. Of course. Of course it had to be Anna.
Anna, my labelmate—always cheerful, perpetually talkative, rarely in the building, and now, inconveniently, directly in my line of exit. She waved like we were long-lost siblings. Which meant I couldn't pretend I didn't see her. My moral compass wouldn't allow it, even in crisis.
"Anna! Fancy seeing you here," I said, plastering on the kind of smile that feels physically heavy on your face.
I bowed politely, extended my hand for a shake—because social rituals matter, even when you're internally screaming.
She smiled back, shook my hand lightly, and immediately launched into an elaborate explanation about her morning. I nodded at the right intervals, pretending to listen while my eyes flicked around the lobby like a paranoid meerkat.
And then—I saw him. The man from Josh's office. The same one from the security room. He stepped into the hallway, and for a second, time stopped.
My breath hitched. My stomach twisted into origami.
Not now. Please, not now.
Anna was still talking. She hadn't noticed the way I was slowly losing structural integrity as a person. Every word she spoke stretched time further, like watching slow-motion doom. My palms started to sweat; I could feel my pulse in my ears.
"Anna," I cut in, raising a polite hand. "I'm so sorry—but nature's been calling for a while now."
Her eyes widened, then softened in sympathy. "Oh, you poor thing! You should've said so earlier."
"Yes. Tragic oversight," I said quickly, bowing again before she could resume another paragraph.
She waved me off cheerfully. "Go, go!"
And I did. I made a break for the doors—this time without hesitation—and practically sprinted to the parking lot.
Once inside my car, I jammed the key into the ignition, gripped the steering wheel, and inhaled deeply.
Freedom. At last.
Until I looked up. He was there. Running toward me. His expression pure fury, his finger stabbing through the air like a weapon.
"If I catch you, you're dead!" he roared, his voice slicing through the lot.
My survival instincts kicked in faster than my conscience ever could. I hit the accelerator. Tires squealed. The car lurched forward. My heart thumped loud enough to drown out the engine.
I checked the rearview mirror. He was still running after me, shouting what I assume were creative expletives. I didn't catch the details—too busy not dying.
"That was close," I muttered, exhaling shakily.
A small, nervous laugh escaped me, the kind that bubbles up when adrenaline and absurdity collide.
The laugh kept going until it wasn't funny anymore—just relief. Pure, dizzying relief.
That evening, I buried myself in the script. I always do this—total immersion until the outside world dissolves.
Within minutes, I was no longer Elves Ajer, veteran actor and reluctant fugitive from a parking lot incident. I was Vest, the man I was about to become.
Vest was eccentric—magnetic, even. The kind of person whose energy pulled people in like gravity. Everyone in his orbit adored him, though he rarely seemed to notice. Underneath that charm, though, there was something darker. A quiet vengefulness that flickered when someone crossed him. I liked that duality. The sharpness beneath the smile. The performance behind the personality. It felt honest.
At the start of the story, his hatred was focused entirely on the man played by my soon-to-be co-star. But as the narrative unfolded, that hate transformed into something obsessive, something dangerous. Love disguised as rivalry.
I closed the script for a moment, fingers resting on the page.
I wondered—quietly, privately—if I would ever love someone like that. With the same kind of frightening intensity.
Then again, I wasn't sure I understood what love felt like in the first place. My life has been consistent to the point of sterility. Acting since I was twelve, working without pause, talking about work, preparing for more work—it all blurred into one long, continuous scene. Somewhere between childhood auditions and magazine covers, my twenties had slipped away unnoticed.
I woke up one morning nearing thirty and realized my personal life was as blank as a new script. No romance. No first kiss. No intimacy—physical or otherwise. Not even the kind that begins and ends in quiet ambiguity.
People assume that's by choice. It isn't. I tried. Parties, gatherings, "networking events." All noise, all faces, all fleeting. I'd talk, listen, observe, nod at the right cues. But no one ever stepped closer. No one ever reached past polite conversation.
Sometimes I wondered if I gave off something… unapproachable.
Was I intimidating? Too rigid? Too particular?
When I looked in the mirror, I didn't see someone threatening. My face was fine—presentable, symmetrical enough to pass camera tests, even a little cute on a good day.
Still, people tended to keep their distance.
Even the ones I dated briefly. One coffee, one dinner, maybe two—then silence. No explanations. Just evaporated interest.
Josh once told me, "You talk about acting too much. That's why they leave. They think you're obsessed." I told him that wasn't true. That people just didn't get me. But maybe he wasn't wrong. I do talk about acting a lot. Because it's what I understand best. I know how to break down a scene, not flirt through one.
Vest, my character, was the opposite—effortlessly magnetic, disarmingly flirtatious. He didn't just charm people; he studied them, tailored his words to fit their hearts. I, on the other hand, tailor my words to fit scripts.
I sighed, rubbing at the bridge of my nose.
"I might need to find a love coach if I want to be as convincing as Vest," I murmured.
It wasn't a joke. I meant it.
So I turned back to the script—reading it again, slower this time—looking not just for dialogue, but for rhythm, tone, vulnerability. For something that might teach me what I'd been missing all these years.
I got so absorbed in the script that I lost track of time completely. When I finally looked at the clock, it was three in the morning. My eyes ached, my brain buzzed, and yet I still wanted to read one more page. That's always how it goes—once I'm deep into a story, time stops behaving like everyone else says it should.
Eventually, I forced myself to sleep.
Four hours later, I was up again. Seven sharp. Routine waits for no one—not even fatigue.
My process before a new project is sacred.
Step one: meet my stylist to conceptualize the overall look.
Step two: meet my trainer to discuss the physical build and movement patterns of the character.
Step three: visit my hairstylist for a cut that fits the role's silhouette.
Step four: meet with my acting mentor to break down emotional rhythms—how the character breathes, walks, blinks, smiles, and hides things when they shouldn't be hidden.
Most people call it "overpreparing." I call it doing my job properly. So, despite the lack of sleep, that morning followed the same structure. I dressed simply—cap, mask, plain clothes. Less chance of being recognized, less chance of having to call security. The last thing I wanted was attention.
I left my condo and stepped into the elevator lobby, rubbing at the dark circles under my eyes. The elevator dinged open, and that's when I froze. Inside stood a man in a black hoodie, black jeans, and white sneakers. Laid-back. Effortlessly so. But I recognized him immediately. The man from the parking lot. The one whose car I'd… artistically repaired.
For a brief second, I considered pretending I was someone else. Unfortunately, my face doesn't transform on command.
He looked at me, then stepped aside to let me in.
I entered, keeping my expression neutral, the way I do when playing someone who definitely isn't guilty.
He pressed nothing, just stood there.
I told myself, He doesn't know. He can't possibly know. I look too calm. Probably.
"Excuse me," he said.
I stiffened. Every muscle tensed. I didn't respond. Maybe if I stayed perfectly still, he'd give up. He didn't. Instead, I felt a light nudge on my shoulder—his finger. I turned, painfully slow, like a machine low on power.
"What floor should I press?" he asked, brow raised.
I blinked at him. Once. Twice. My brain scrambled for the context, then promptly crashed.
He sighed, shook his head slightly, and stepped back, gesturing toward the buttons as if to say, Clearly, you can handle this yourself.
And just like that, realization hit. He wasn't confronting me. He was literally just asking what floor I wanted.
My face burned. "Oh."
Brilliant comeback.
He'd already pressed the button for the lobby. Of course he had.
I nodded awkwardly, smiled in that mechanical way people do when they've run out of social scripts, and retreated into the farthest corner of the elevator.
The silence stretched. He didn't say anything, but I could feel his glances—quick, assessing, occasionally curious. Maybe judgmental. Or maybe my guilt was translating every neutral expression into condemnation.
Either way, I stood there, hands folded, pretending to study the elevator's emergency instructions. They were, for the record, grammatically incorrect in two places.
I couldn't tell why he made me so uncomfortable. Maybe it was the guilt, or maybe it was the fact that he carried himself with the kind of quiet authority that demanded attention. People like that always unsettle me—they throw off the structure of the room.
By the time the doors opened, I was seconds away from combustion. I bolted out without so much as a glance backward, my footsteps echoing down the hallway toward the parking lot.
Freedom. Again. Though somehow, I doubted it would last long.
I was standing in front of my car, fumbling with the keys—old-fashioned ones, the kind that force you to twist instead of click. A daily reminder that my car, like me, prefers reliability over trend.
I had just found the right key when a firm hand landed on my shoulder.
I froze.
Before I could turn, the voice came. Cold. Low. Precise.
"So, you're the one responsible."
I turned slowly and came face to face with him—the man I'd been trying to avoid since the… incident.
"Yes?" I croaked, which was not at all the tone I'd rehearsed in my head.
He smirked, then let it drop into a scowl. The kind of expression that makes your stomach rearrange itself.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered, peeling his hand off my shoulder. The move was reflexive. Physical contact throws me off balance. Always has.
I turned back toward my car, pretending that if I acted casual enough, the universe would play along. It didn't.
He scoffed—a single, sharp sound—and walked away.
I exhaled. Relief, temporary but potent. I was halfway through unlocking the door when his footsteps returned.
He tugged me back gently but firmly. No malice, just certainty. That somehow made it worse. Then he held up his phone. The screen was all the explanation I needed. CCTV footage. Our company's parking lot. Me. Crouched beside his luxury car, marker in hand, grinning like a child who thought he'd solved quantum physics with crayons. Even pixelated, it was undeniably me.
My stomach sank through the pavement. Heat flooded my face. I bit my lip—hard—because sometimes pain helps me focus.
"I wasn't supposed to cover up the damage," I began, my voice wobbling. "But your car is too expensive. It would cost a fortune to fix, and I—"
I trailed off. There was no ending that didn't sound idiotic.
He said nothing for a while, just looked at me. His silence was unnerving—measured, steady. He wasn't angry anymore. Just disappointed. Somehow, that felt worse.
Finally, he sighed.
"I don't care about the repair," he said. "What bothered me was the lack of accountability. You could've explained what happened. I'm not unreasonable—I would've listened."
Then he turned to leave.
For some reason—maybe pride, maybe guilt—I couldn't let that be his last impression of me.
I grabbed his wrist before I could think better of it.
He stopped, eyebrows raised. His gaze was calm, but questioning.
"I'll pay for the repair," I blurted out. "Whatever it costs."
That wasn't what I meant to say. What I meant was I'm sorry. But my pride always edits before my conscience can speak. It's a chronic condition.
He studied me for a moment, then extended his hand. "Can I have your business card?"
I blinked, confused but obedient. I always carry a card holder—it's an automatic gesture, like breathing in professional settings. I handed one over.
He looked at it briefly. "I was going to let it slide—assume I was the one who scratched it. But since you insist, I'll send the repair bill to your address."
He pocketed the card and walked off, his tone perfectly polite, which somehow made it feel like I'd just lost a very quiet argument.
I stood there, dumbfounded. The kind of stunned stillness where your brain replays the last thirty seconds on loop, each time highlighting a new humiliation.
Finally, I muttered under my breath, "Brilliant, Elves. Truly brilliant."
I got into my car, sulking, gripping the steering wheel like it might offer emotional support.
"As if I'll ever see him again," I grumbled, starting the engine.
I drove away from the building, catching a brief glimpse of his car in the rearview mirror.
The guilt still pricked at me—sharp, uncomfortable, persistent. I didn't like the idea of having wronged someone, especially when the evidence had literally been caught on camera.
The rest of the day blurred into a cycle of appointments. Meetings, fittings, rehearsals, consultations—everything bleeding into everything else. When I finally got back to my condo, exhaustion had settled into my bones like wet sand. I didn't even notice how quiet the hallway was until I reached my floor.
That familiar feeling was back—the sense that someone was watching me. It wasn't new. I'd felt it for years, usually at night, usually when I was alone. I'd convinced myself it was just a fan, one of the more enthusiastic ones who somehow always knew where I lived.
But tonight, the feeling was different. Heavier. Closer.
My pulse picked up as I walked down the hall. I could hear the echo of my own footsteps—and maybe another pair trailing half a beat behind. I fumbled for my access card. My hands weren't shaking, but my brain was running too many calculations at once: distance to the door, sound behind me, speed required to get inside.
The moment the scanner beeped green, I felt it—pressure behind me. Someone standing too close. Every instinct in my body screamed.
Then—hands. Firm, sudden. On my shoulders.
I screamed. Loudly. Reflexively. I'm told my voice carries; at that moment, I didn't care.
The person reacted instantly, shoving me through the doorway just as it slid open, then snapping it shut and locking us both inside. My back hit the nearby wall, and before I could even process what was happening, a hand clamped over my mouth.
"Shh."
That voice again. Low. Familiar.
My eyes went wide.
It was him. The man from the parking lot. Of course it was. The universe has a dark sense of humor.
Please don't tell me he's my stalker, I thought, staring at him with all the silent suspicion my eyes could muster.
He must've noticed, because he quickly removed his hand and turned toward the door. Without explaining, he leaned forward to peer through the peephole.
"What are you—"
His hand shot back to my mouth before I could finish. Still not looking at me.
I muffled a protest and glared.
He stayed there, frozen in observation, his breathing steady.
The seconds stretched thin.
I could hear my heart hammering louder than the hum of the air conditioner.
When he finally pulled back, he sighed in relief. His hand was still on my mouth.
So, naturally, I did the only thing that made sense to me at the time: I licked his palm.
He recoiled instantly. "Ew!"
He wiped his hand furiously against his sweatshirt, looking more disgusted than angry.
I straightened my shirt, crossed my arms, and stared him down. "Care to explain why you just broke into my condo?"
He shot me a look, still wiping.
"Your stalker tried to approach you earlier," he said. "The guy had pepper spray. You could've been in serious danger if I hadn't intervened."
That should have comforted me. It didn't.
Then he added, almost lazily, "Though, I don't know what he saw in you."
I blinked. Once. Slowly.
The audacity.
Before I could respond, he was already walking out, pulling the door closed behind him as if we hadn't just shared one of the most bizarre interactions of my adult life.
For the second time in less than a week, I was left speechless because of the same man.
My jaw clenched. I could feel my fingers curl into fists.
"Unbelievable," I muttered.
You've crossed the wrong man, I thought, staring at the closed door.
And I meant it.
No one humiliates me twice and walks away like that.