Chapter 1- Julian
The third-floor hallway of The Heights always smelled like a losing battle between industrial strength lemon floor wax and the stale, ghost of cigarette smoke from 3B.
It was supposed to be neutral ground—a bland, beige transition from the chaos of the city to the sanctuary of my couch.
Then I saw him.
Arlo Vance was leaning against my doorframe with a casualness that made my blood simmer. He looked like he owned the building, or at least the air rights to the square foot of tile he was currently contaminating.
I stopped dead, the plastic handles of my grocery bag digging into my palm, the weight of a gallon of milk and canned foods thudding rhythmically against my thigh.
"You’re blocking the keypad, Vance. Move."
Arlo didn’t budge. He just shifted his weight, his battered skateboard tucked under one arm like a weapon he didn't have any use for. A lazy, practiced smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Pretty sure this is a public hallway, Jules. Besides, I’m waiting for my sister. You know, the one currently inside your apartment teaching your little brother how to actually pass Algebra?"
I ground my teeth so hard I felt the vibration in my skull. I looked down at my scuffed sneakers, trying to find a reason not to drop the groceries and swing.
Our lives were a messy, overlapping diagram, Leo and Maya were inseparable, which meant my life was basically one miserable circle with Arlo Vance standing right in the center of it.
"His name is Leo, and you know that," I snapped. I stepped forward, deep into Arlo’s personal space. I’m tall, taller than him, and I let that shadow fall over him, radiating enough heat to melt a glacier.
Most people would have flinched. Arlo just tilted his head back against the doorframe. Up close, the hallway’s flickering fluorescent light caught the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
My eyes betrayed me, tracking the way his green eyes dipped down to my mouth. It wasn't a look of fear. It felt like an inspection. slow, deliberate, and devastatingly calm.
I steeled my back, my heart beginning to hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"You’re awfully wound up today," Arlo murmured. His voice dropping an octave, turning gravelly and low. He didn't pull back.
Instead, he leaned an inch closer, his shoulder brushing mine through the thin fabric of my shirt. "Is it the heat? Or are you just that happy to see me?"
The whisper sent a traitorous shiver racing down the base of my spine, blurring my focus. It stoked that ever living flame of hatred I carried for him, but the flame was starting to feel less like anger and more like a fever.
"I’d be happy to see you fall off a fire escape," I hissed.
I took a sharp step back, desperate to put air between us.
I’ve known Arlo was gay since the day we met, that wasn't the problem. The problem was his shit personality and the way he existed purely to piss me off. I’d never had a problem with who people wanted to lay in bed with. hell, lately, I’d caught myself eye fucking the redhead at the grocery store, the guy with the steady hands and the silver rings.
To say I was sexually confused was an understatement. I’d spent eighteen years thinking I was as straight as a line, but lately, that line was looking pretty jagged.
Arlo’s proximity, the scent of him, something citrusy, like an orange peel, mixed with something metallic, wasn't helping my internal crisis.
The air in the hallway thickened, turning heavy and jagged. For a fleeting second, the "I hate you" I’d prepared to spit out got caught in my throat. I found myself studying him back. I noticed the way his brown hair curled just slightly around his ear, and the way his lips seemed permanently fixed in a pout.
“Right," Arlo whispered. His smirk faltered for the briefest of moments, his eyes widening as if he’d caught me looking at him with more than just anger.
He recovered instantly, sliding on his mask of cool indifference. "See you at dinner, neighbor. Since apparently, our mom’s have decided tonight is Taco Tuesday."
He pushed off the doorframe and sauntered toward the elevators, the wheels of his skateboard clicking against the tile.
I stood there, frozen, watching him go. for the first time since I’d met Arlo Vance, I couldn't think of a single thing to say.
