IN THE FAHARA

Charlie's POV

I Hate flying. Let me rephrase that-I loathe flying. Cramped seats, dry air, screaming babies, and that one guy who thinks deodorant is optional. Add to that the fact that I was squished in coach (or "economy," as the airline smugly called it), and you've got the perfect recipe for a stiff neck, sore thighs, and a deep-seated resentment for humanity.

But now I was finally in Chicago. The Windy City. The city of deep-dish pizza, bulletproof coffee, and... my new life. Yay?

Dragging my suitcase across the terminal like it weighed a thousand pounds, I could feel my bones protest every step. And of course, it was cold. Like my-soul-left-my-body cold. Thanks, Chicago. Real warm welcome.

"New life," I muttered, sarcastically, to myself. "New city, new job, new potential for public embarrassment."

That last part wasn't even sarcasm. Just... odds.

Here's the lowdown on me: I'm Charlie Moore. Slightly chubby-thanks to a sugar addiction and a hate-hate relationship with cardio. Red hair that makes me look like a misplaced Weasley, freckles like I fell asleep under a holey sun umbrella, and glasses that constantly fog up when I'm stressed. Oh, and let's not forget the adorable stutter that shows up whenever I'm nervous . So, basically always.. I've never dated, never kissed, if my sex life was a restaurant the close sign will be dusting and permanent, and the closest I've come to a romantic encounter was when someone accidentally brushed my hand at a vending machine. They apologized. I blushed for an hour.

My childhood? Chaotic. Fifth kid out of eight. My parents were so busy surviving that things like affection, praise, and remembering my name fell through the cracks. If I hadn't started wearing glasses, I think they'd still confuse me with my younger brother.

But there was one person who always saw me-Miss Victoria. My aunt. Rich. Regal. A bit terrifying. Picture a Vogue cover model crossed with a mafia boss. She paid for my college, gave me my first job-part-time, in one of her "establishments" (which, now that I think about it, may have been an upscale kink lounge)-and most recently, she got me a position at a top-tier building and construction company in downtown Chicago. Something about a "favour" she was owed by the CEO. I didn't ask questions. I just said thank you and tried not to cry on the phone.

And now I was here. In a city where I knew no one. In an apartment I hadn't seen yet. With a roommate I hadn't met. What could possibly go wrong?

I wheeled my embarrassingly old suitcase out of O'Hare, trying to look like I belonged, but the truth was I didn't. Not here. Not anywhere.

The Uber dropped me off at a decent-looking brownstone in Lakeview. Nothing too fancy, nothing too murder-y. The stairwell reeked of old Chinese takeout and maybe regret. I wrestled my suitcase up three flights of stairs, almost died once, and finally found my new apartment.

I knocked quietly on the door afraid to disturb who ever is on the inside.

The door to 3B swung open with zero warning.

I flinched. Hard.

Standing there was... well, her. Tall. Hair so black it looked like ink in the light. Sharp eyebrows. A fitted tank top and pajama pants with tiny storm clouds on them. I hadn't expected my new roommate to look like she could kill a man with one flick of her eyeliner pen.

"You Charlie?" she asked flatly, arms crossed, eyes scanning me like airport security.

"U-Uh... y-yeah. I-I mean, y-yes."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You stutter?"

My face flushed. "S-Sometimes. W-When I'm... n-nervous."

"You always nervous?"

I nodded. Pathetically.

She let out a long sigh and stepped back. "Great. Another shy one. C'mon in before you freeze to death."

I dragged my suitcase inside. The apartment was surprisingly nice-plants in the window, a couch that had definitely seen better days, and a faint smell of lavender and pizza.

"I'm Mia," she said, watching me like a hawk as I shuffled inside. "I don't do roommate bonding, I eat whatever's in the fridge, and I don't want to hear you crying at 2 a.m."

"I-I wasn't planning to," I murmured.

"Good." She paused. "You look like you bruise easy."

I blinked. "Th-That's... probably accurate."

Her lip twitched. Almost a smile. But then it was gone. "Bedroom's on the left. Bathroom's down the hall. Use my shampoo and I'll skin you."

I stared at her.

"I'm kidding," she said. "Mostly."

I nodded again and tried to move toward the bedroom without tripping. I failed. My suitcase caught on the rug and I stumbled forward with an undignified squeak.

Mia watched, unimpressed.

"You always this twitchy, Bambi?"