Page 5 of Crawl for Me

I’ll shower, wash away the stench of mediocrity, scrub off every bad fumble and grunt. Strip the night down to clean skin, washed hair, and a steady pulse. This isn’t about what I’ve done tonight. This is different. It’s a… welcoming committee. Of one.

Who cares if it’s trashy. I’m intrigued.

So—fuck it.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the hallway with damp hair and a bottle of wine in each hand like some desperate door-to-door salesman. My pulse hammers so hard I almost miss the sound of the latch clicking.

The door cracks open and he blinks at me, wide-eyed, his hand going straight to the back of his neck. “Uh—hi,” he stammers, voice a little rough. “Wow, I didn’t… I mean—hi.”

I lift the bottles up with a grin. “I found another under the sink. Don’t know how long it’s been there, but this shit gets better with age, right?”

His mouth twitches into something halfway between a smile and a panic attack, and he steps back, pulling the door open wider. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Uh—come in.”

I step past him and into the chaos—half-opened boxes, bare walls, the air thick with the scent of cardboard, garlic takeout, and the faint trace of spicy cologne.

“The living area’s, uh—” He nods ahead, scratching at his jaw.

“I know,” I say, glancing back at him over my shoulder.

“Oh. Right. Same layouts,” he says, mouth quirking up.

I step over a stack of flattened cardboard, crossing to the couch tucked against the far wall. The springs groan beneath me as my gaze sweeps across the room—a lamp with no shade, wires coiled like snakes on the floor. “Cozy,” I deadpan. “Minimalist monk retreat. You’ll have to give me tips.”

He laughs under his breath. “I’m unpacking the rest tomorrow, I swear.” Then he vanishes into the kitchen, reappearing a minute later with an empty glass in one hand, and a half-filled one in the other. “Here,” he says, holding out the empty one.

I take it from him, set one of my bottles on the table, pop the other open, and fill it to the rim. “Thanks.”

He hovers for a second, then perches at the far end of the couch, stiff as a board, like the armrest might shield him from whatever feral attack he thinks I’m about to unleash on him.

I sink back into the cushion, crossing one leg over the other, side-eyeing him over the rim of my glass. “Relax,” I murmur. “If I was going to murder you, I wouldn’t have brought my own merlot. I’d have brought something stronger, like tequila.”

He huffs out an unsteady laugh and takes a heavy swallow from his glass without answering, the rim clinking faintly against his teeth.

The silence that follows is awkward in the way only two near-strangers in a half-furnished apartment can manage. I should leave, probably. Drain my glass, toss out a polite ‘thanks for the… tour?’ and disappear down the hallway. Clean exit. But the couch is warm under me, his nerves and twitching fingers are kind of charming, and the way he’s avoiding my gaze is downright adorable. So instead of standing, I tip my glass toward him. “So. New to the city, or just the building?”

He loosens a fraction, shoulders dropping as his eyes flicker down to his drink. “Both,” he says.

I arch a brow. “That’s suspiciously vague.”

He takes a heavy sip, still avoiding my gaze. “Thought I’d save the boring backstory for the second bottle. You know—keep you hooked for the sequel.”

The laugh that bursts out of me is nothing more than an undignified snort, sharp enough that I almost choke on my wine.

His head snaps up at the sound—there it is—a boyish smile, wide and unguarded, slicing straight through his nerves, lighting up his whole face. And damn, if it doesn’t land square into my stomach. Maybe he just needed a glass of wine to loosen the knots.

I lean across the couch, pluck his glass right out of his hand, and top it off with the remnants of my first bottle before he can protest. He blinks as I hand it back, fingers curling awkwardly around the stem. His lips stay parted slightly from possible shock before he clears his throat. “So… how long have you lived here?” he asks. “And do you live with someone or…?”

Oh yeah, definitely the wine. He’s getting bolder.

“Three years,” I say as I unscrew the second bottle. “And God, no. I’d lose my mind if I had to live with someone.”

His brows lift. “Oh? What’s the longest you’ve lasted with a roommate?”

“Two months,” I say. “College. She stole my very expensive shampoo and tried to set me up with her brother—three times. Never again.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh and finally leans back into the couch a little. “I had a roommate once who kept his reptiles in the fridge.”

“The fridge?” My brow furrows. “That’s… that’s not real. Surely?”