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That’s when all the little sounds that I’d normally think nothing of, like the ice maker kicking on or the faint thunk of a door closing down the hall, began to feel more ominous.

The door closing was an intruder who’d made it past all the security and was going apartment by apartment, searching forme. Hurting everyone in his path, including the innocent women and babies who live here. And it was all my fault.

The ice clunking into the icebox in the freezer was someone picking the lock at my door.

And in the absence of noise, the silence became claustrophobic. My ears strained to hear any possible sign of danger, from the whisper of fabric brushing a wall to the scuff of a shoe on the floor.

So I got up to watch TV instead. Spent ten minutes figuring out the complicated remote and another ten trying to find something to watch that wouldn’t be triggering. The thrillers I usually watch? No way. Too close to reality. A mystery? Same. I finally settled on a reality show about housewives, but they kept yelling at each other, which just made me feel sick and anxious.

Now I’m watching a cooking show, which is about as unthreatening as it gets. But it’s still not enough to soothe my nerves. Or to allow me to relax enough to fall asleep. Eating? Forget it. My stomach is pretzeled into countless knots.

It’s the worst feeling, being so tired but absolutely unable to fall asleep. And the more tired I get, the more my head hurts and the more on edge I feel.

I’ve almost gone to Erik’s apartment at least half a dozen times. Even made it as far as the hallway. But then I remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t. He might be sleeping. Doing his meditations. Watching a movie. Heck, he might not even be there. He could be in one of his friends’ apartments, visiting.

Although he told me to stop by any time. Why would he say that if he didn’t mean it?

I try to refocus on the contestant frantically trying to save her souffle, silently rooting her on to succeed.

Less than a minute later, the poor woman takes the souffle out of the oven and bursts into tears when she discovers it’s completely flat.

Unexpectedly, tears spring to my eyes, as well.

Great. Now I’m crying over a cooking show. A show I’m noton, but simply watching.

I glance at the little clock on the side table, grimacing when I realize it’s only ten o’clock. Which means I have hours left to kill if my body insists on staying awake. Hours of twitchy loneliness and trying my best not to freak out.

Maybe I should go over to Erik’s after all.

Or… What if I baked something? Are there ingredients for baking here?

I’m already halfway to the kitchen before I stop myself.

What am I thinking? I can’t just show up at his door with a plate of cookies. Yes, I talked about baking for him, but I hardly think ten o’clock at night after a very long and stressful day is the right time.

Sighing, I head back to the couch. I’m just about to flop back down when a faint knock sounds at the door. Less than a second later, a little screen beside the door blinks on, displaying a live video feed.

I can’t see who’s on the screen from here, but my hopeful heart gives a little leap, anyway.

It could be anyone, really. Not necessarily Erik. It could be Sarah, who so kindly left all the food for me. Or Jade, of the cinnamon roll air freshener. Possibly Isla or Lucy, though I’m sure they’re both busy with their babies. Maybe Rhiannon, coming to introduce herself.

Honestly, at this point, I’d take any visitor. Anything to distract me from this awful feeling.

But it’s not just anyone.

It’s Erik. Standing in the hallway with his hands shoved in his pants pockets, looking at the security camera with an almost hesitant expression.

And oh. He’s just sohandsome. In tan cargo pants and a dark blue T-shirt that stretches over his chest and biceps, beard freshly trimmed, those fascinating tattoos decorating his muscled arms…

I know it shouldn’t matter what he looks like. But wouldn’t any red-blooded woman take a few seconds to admire him?

“Tate,” he says, his voice sounding slightly tinny as it comes through the security feed. “I hope I’m not waking you up. But I just thought… Well. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Pressing the button I assume is the intercom, I quickly reply, “You didn’t wake me up. It’s fine. I just—” I wrestle with one of the three locks on the door. “I’m just trying to get the door open.”

His lips curve up. “Everyone has a hard time with them in the beginning. I know three locks seems like overkill, considering. But in our line of work, we figure better safe than sorry.”

I get the final lock unfastened and open the door, meeting Erik’s smile with one of my own. His scent hits me immediately; a woodsy aroma with hints of citrus and amber. I’ve never been one who cared much about how guys smell, as long as they didn’t stink, but there’s just something about Erik’s particular scent that makes my body come alive.