Page 3 of Crawl for Me

Sable

T he TV plays in the background as I sink into the couch cushions and shovel a forkful of cold noodles into my mouth.

The new neighbor is… interesting, to say the least. That look on his face.

Jesus. It was like he’d been caught shoplifting candy and I’d been the officer interrogating him the whole ride up.

He was nervous, twitchy, gripping that little takeout bag like it was a life raft.

And yet— fuck— he was attractive. Stupidly attractive.

Broad shoulders under that rumpled button-down, hair falling just a little too long over his forehead, and that nervous smile…

like he was trying to apologize for existing.

It could’ve been boyish if it weren’t sitting on such a distractingly good-looking man.

I jab my fork at the carton, rolling my eyes at myself.

I don’t usually go for the whole awkward, deer-in-headlights thing.

Confidence is what normally calls for me.

But look at where that’s gotten me so far—years of disappointment and a dent in my vibrator batteries.

And there’s definitely something about watching six-foot-something of tense muscle practically combust because my knuckle grazed his when I pressed the button for our floor.

It was refreshing actually. A nice change from the over-slick bullshit I’m used to.

So I guess that’s now permanently wormed its way under my skin.

And then that awkward, stumbling invite—if you could even call it that—‘ bad Saturdays and an extra glass.’ I only mentioned it as a throwaway after a shitty night, something easy to say in whatever push-pull, teasing conversation we had going on.

But the way he scrambled after it… underneath the stammering. .. I think he wanted me to say yes.

I stare down at the cold, greasy noodles, laying limp on the fork. I might take him up on it. What the hell would I even have to lose? He’s just a neighbour. A hot one with a nervous smile and a voice that tripped over itself like a runner on a cracked sidewalk.

My fists push into the cushions as I push up, but I only make it halfway to standing before I flop back down.

No. I can’t go. That would be insane. I literally just had another man inside me an hour ago.

The thought makes my skin prickle. Connor’s sweat, his voice…

the memory of it drags like grit under my fingernails.

Sliding straight from that into knocking on the new guy’s door screams reckless, maybe even a little trashy.

But then the image of Noah’s face at his door flashes in my mind—nervous as hell but trying to hold it together—and my stomach does a flip. He isn’t Connor. Not even close. And that’s the point, isn’t it?

It’s only a few drinks. With a guy. With my neighbor . Totally fine.

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?”

“Swear to God.” He nods, resting his elbow on the armrest. “I freaked out like crazy when I went to grab a bottle of water and found a snake. He told me the cold put them in stasis. I didn’t stick around long enough to fact-check.

” He grimaces slightly, shaking his head like the memory of an ice-cold reptile by the leftovers still haunts him.

Another laugh bubbles out of me as I sip, and when I glance back up at him, he’s smiling again.

The silence settles between us for a minute before his voice cuts through, tentative but braver than before.

“So… if you live alone, does that mean you uh—” he falters, running a hand over the back of his neck.

“Does that mean you don’t have anyone else around? ”

My brow raises as I glance down at his glass. I’ve barely had half of mine, but he’s draining his at breakneck speed, no wonder he’s loosening. “No,” I say, taking a heavy gulp to catch up. “Just got out of something. Very, very recently.”

His face falls quickly. “Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean?—”

“Don’t,” I cut him off with a shake of my head. “It was six weeks of god-awful nothingness. If you’re going to feel bad for anyone, feel bad for him.”

I wince inwardly. Fantastic. We’re going for confessional hour with the new neighbour. The words hang there longer than I’d like. He toys with his glass, shoulders shifting slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to handle whatever I’ve just dumped in his lap.

I pour another glass to the brim and take a gulp big enough to drown the taste of my own words. “Anyway. Enough about my tragic love life,” I say, trying to steer us back toward reptiles in the fridge and his monk-level interior design.

But he lingers, eyes flicking from me to the wall before he speaks quietly. “Was it… bad?”

“Not necessarily,” I say. “It just wasn’t good, you know?”

“So it was bad?” he says, leaning forward slightly.

I blink at him, caught off guard. Maybe it’s the alcohol bringing out this sly side of persistence. But I guess we’re in it now.

My gaze tips to the ceiling, a dry laugh working its way out of my throat. “Define bad. Six weeks of mediocre dinners and worse sex? You tell me.”

Pink flushes the tips of his ears, and his mouth opens and snaps shut, like he isn’t sure if he should laugh or apologise for even asking in the first place. He downs the rest of his wine instead, then fumbles for his bottle to refill it.