Normally, if I were to wake up, ope

Normally, if I were to wake up, open my eyes, and see an angry man staring me down from a bedroom doorway, I might scream. I might throw things. I might run to the bathroom and lock myself inside.
I don’t do any of these things, though.
I stare back, because I’m confused about how this is the same guy who was passed out drunk in the hallway. How is this the same guy who cried himself to sleep last night?
This guy is intimidating. This guy is angry. This guy is watching me like I should be giving him an apology or explaining myself.
It is the same guy, though, because he’s wearing the same pair of jeans and the same black T-shirt he fell asleep in last night. The only difference in his appearance between last night and this morning is that he’s now able to stand up without assistance.
“What happened to my hand, Tate?”
He knows my name. Does he know it because Corbin told him I was moving in or because he actually remembers my telling him last night? I’m hoping Corbin told him, because I don’t really want him to remember last night. I suddenly feel embarrassed that he might recall my consoling him while he cried himself to sleep.
He apparently doesn’t have a clue what happened to his hand, though, so I hope that means he has no recollection of anything beyond that.
He’s leaning against my bedroom door with his arms folded across his chest. He looks defensive, like I’m the one responsible for his bad night. I roll over, still not quite finished with sleeping, even though he thinks I owe him some sort of explanation. I pull the covers over my head.
“Lock the front door on your way out,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint that he is more than welcome to go back to his place now.
“Where’s my phone?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to drown out the smooth sound of his voice as it slides into my ears and makes its way through every nerve in my body, warming me in places this flimsy blanket failed to do all night.
I remind myself that the person that sultry voice belongs to is now standing in the doorway, rudely demanding things without even acknowledging the fact that I helped him last night. I’d like to know where my Thank you is. Or my Hey, I’m Miles. Nice to meet you.
I get none of that from this guy. He’s too worried about his hand. And his phone, apparently. Too worried about himself to be concerned about how many people his carelessness might have inconvenienced last night. If this guy and his attitude are going to be my neighbors for the next few months, I’d better set him straight now.
I toss the covers off and stand up, then walk to the door and meet his gaze. “Do me a favor and take a step back.”
Surprisingly, he does. I keep my eyes locked with his until the bedroom door slams in his face and I’m looking at the back of the door. I smile and walk back to my bed. I lie down and pull the covers over my head.
I win.
Have I mentioned I’m not much of a morning person?
The door opens again.
Fliesopen.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he yells.
I groan, then sit up on the bed and look at him. He’s standing in the doorway once again, still looking at me like I owe him something.
“You!”I yell back.
He looks genuinely shocked at my harsh response, which kind of makes me feel bad. But he’sthe one being the jerk!
I think.
He started it.
I think.
He eyes me hard for a few seconds, then tilts his head slightly forward and arches an eyebrow.
“Did we . . .” He motions his finger back and forth between us. “Did we hook up last night? Is that why you’re pissed?”
I laugh when my initial thoughts are confirmed.
He’sbeing the jerk.
And this is great. I’m neighbors with a guy who gets shitfaced on weeknights and obviously brings home so many girls in the process that he can’t even remember which ones he messed around with.
I open my mouth to respond but am cut off by the sound of the apartment door closing and Corbin’s voice yelling out.
“Tate?”