They stepped into the apartment, and Giovanni moved like a storm barely held together by skin.
He flung his backpack onto the couch with more force than necessary, the thud echoing through the room. His steps were clipped, almost stomping as he made a beeline for the kitchen.
Salomé lingered by the door, one brow raised as she watched him silently unravel.
He turned on the faucet and scrubbed his hands like they offended him, then slammed it off with a violent twist. The fridge door was yanked open like it owed him money. He grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off with a sharp crack, and chugged it down before tossing the empty bottle into the bin with barely a glance.
Salomé watched, arms folded, lips pressed together to keep from laughing. It was so out of character. So theatrical. So... boyish.
He turned toward the hallway like a man on a mission, but she stepped into his path, crossing her arms tighter. He stopped just short of her, eyes cool, blue, and unreadable.
She tilted her head. "Is it Mason?"
His jaw twitched. "What?"
"My friend," she paused, studying his reaction. "The one you just met."
He said nothing and tried to step around her, but she shifted, blocking him again. "Is he the reason you're acting all—" she gestured vaguely at the kitchen, "—weird and off?"
He scoffed. "Weird."
Salomé kept her gaze fixed on him, clearly not falling for his nonchalant act.
Giovanni stared at her for another second, like he was weighing the cost of speaking versus walking away.
"I don't like him."
"Why?"
"No reason. Just don't."
"You barely said anything to him."
"Didn't need to."
He tried to move past her again, but she moved with him, like a dance she wasn't letting him lead.
"Jealous?"
"No." Too fast.
"Mm-hmm," she hummed, drawing it out like bait. "Because tossing your bag across the room and trying to murder the sink is standard Monday behavior now?"
"I was irritated."
"Oh. I wonder why."
"Can I go now?"
She studied him a beat longer, then stepped aside—just enough to let him pass.
He didn't say a word. Just walked down the hall. She watched until his door shut behind him.
Salomé let out a loud sigh, somewhere between amused and bewildered.
She followed slowly, paused outside his door, and stared at it.
"Drama king," she muttered.
Then turned, opened her own door, and slipped inside.
*
Salomé stirred beneath her blanket, one arm flung over her face. She blinked awake slowly, groggy, disoriented. Rolled over and reached for her phone.
9:37 p.m.
She sat up, pushing the hair from her face with one hand. Her nap had lasted longer than intended. Much longer.
She stood, the floor cool under her feet, opened her bedroom door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway.
It was quiet.
There was no light coming from under his door. That meant he was asleep, right?
She walked into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light; the sudden brightness made her blink.
She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and gulped it down in a few long, greedy swallows. Her throat was dry, mouth cottony from the nap.
When she was done, she tossed the bottle into the trash bin and padded into the living room.
His backpack was still where he'd flung it earlier, abandoned on the couch. She stared at it for a moment, then walked over, brushed it aside gently, and sank into the cushions.
She pulled her knees up, arms around them, and let her gaze drift toward the dark hallway.
Then something lit behind her eyes.
An idea.
Salomé stood with sudden purpose, movements quiet but determined. Without a sound, she turned and tiptoed down the hall, pausing outside her door just long enough to crack it open and slip inside.
She moved like the floor was wired with landmines.
She stopped at her dresser and dropped to her knees. Opened the last drawer and there they were lined in all their glory, gathering dust.
She pulled out a pack and closed the drawer.
She slipped back into the hallway, easing the door shut behind her with delicate care. Then bolted—well, as much as one could bolt silently—back to the kitchen, her bare feet nearly gliding across the floor.
The project began.
Almost an hour and five dissatisfied trials later, she was dripping with sweat, despite having cranked the air conditioning to near-Arctic levels.
Her blue hair stuck to her face, her tank top clung to her spine, and the counters looked like she'd been constructing a bomb.
God forbid, Giovanni set eyes on his nowhere-near-impeccable-kitchen.
But in front of her, it sat. Glorious. Questionable. But glorious.
She grinned.
Salomé waddled over to the couch, gripped the backpack with both hands, and hauled it up with a grunt. It hit her shoulder like a sack of bricks.
"Jesus, Giovanni," she whispered, staggering under the weight. "Is there a human being in this thing?"
She was ninety percent sure she lost an inch of height.
Still, she made her way—funny walk and all—over to the kitchen table. Carefully picked the tray with her 'masterpiece' on it. Braced herself.
Then, with a deep breath, she began her final journey down the hallway.
She arrived at his door and noticed there was no way she could knock.
Okay. Now what?
Hands: occupied.
Leg: too loud.
Elbow: weird angle.
Last thing she wanted was for a single drop of it to spill.
Forehead?
She stared at the door.
Then thunked her forehead against it once.
Harder than she meant.
"Ow," she muttered, eyes watering.
No answer.
She braced herself to thunk again, when—
"Not now Salomé," Giovanni's voice came—low, muffled.
She ignored him. "Is the door open?"
Silence.
Then—"Yes."
She grinned, somehow maneuvering her elbow against the knob until it gave way with a soft click.
The door creaked open, just enough for her to slip inside. She walked in carefully, one step after the other, and closed the door shut behind her with the heel of her foot.
Giovanni was sprawled on his bed, one arm draped over his face. The room dim, lit only by the soft glow of his desk lamp.
He didn't look at her.
She didn't care. Her focus stayed on the tray in her hands as she crossed the room and set it down on his nightstand—centered it. Perfectly.
Then, with a strained grunt, she shrugged off the backpack. It hit the floor with a heavy, echoing thud.
"Sit up. I made ramen."