Nothing, I suppose, can be more melodramatic than reality itself.

“I broke up, Penny.”

The voice belonged to Stella—the girl I had met this very morning in the elevator—who also happened to be Matthew’s new girlfriend. It was difficult to believe she was now, in all seriousness, seeking to discuss with me the turbulence in her relationship with my former boyfriend. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea he had only just…”

“How many times are you going to say you’re sorry?”

She was plainly still plagued by guilt at the thought she might have stolen my boyfriend. With the phone wedged between my shoulder and ear, my hair tied back in a careless, untidy knot against my brow, I dipped a French fry into apple sauce, popped it into my mouth, and with sticky, sugar-slick fingers, typed a string of letters into the K search bar. “You two have no need to break up—I mean it…”

I truly had no desire to listen to her painstakingly recount the entire process of parting with Matthew, especially since only the day before, he had invited me to spend the night at his apartment, then promptly discarded me—a sequence of events that had, inevitably, left my already inflated pride rather bruised.

“To tell you the truth, I had long since lost interest in Matthew—did he ever mention that I once called him Peter by mistake?”

I cleared my throat, adopting a tone of feigned nonchalance, and with a decisive “click,” pressed the search key.

The computer screen responded without hesitation, producing nearly a thousand results… Clearly, I would need more precise information, for there were far too many men named Arthur.

“No, we’ve already broken up. Already.”

Stella stressed the point. “I’m not about to date a man who ended his last relationship less than a day ago—it makes him seem unreliable.” By the end, her voice had softened into something like a muttered complaint, and even across the telephone line, I could picture her look of frustrated dismay.

An unexpected desire stirred in me—to see Matthew’s face at this very moment.

“You’ve got that right,” I replied. “He’s most certainly unreliable…”

But before that, there was something more pressing I had to do.

“By the way, Stella, do you know Matthew’s close friend’s full name? I think it’s something like Arthur.”

“Oh, let me check… I remember Matthew asked me to add him on K last night.”

The crisp sound of typing filtered through the receiver. After a moment, her voice returned: “Ian Lys Arthur McCoy.”

“Arthur’s his middle name?” I asked, somewhat taken aback. What sort of man lets his friends call him by his middle name?

“I suppose it’s his baptismal name,” Stella said. “Sounds like something from the last century.”

My gaze fell once more on the still-glowing search results, strangely vindicated by her words.

“And why do you want to know?” There was a sly note of curiosity in her tone.

I saw no reason to conceal my rather unchaste intentions, and admitted outright:

“Exactly what you’re thinking.”

Just then, a measured knock sounded at the door, followed by a voice from the hallway:

“Pardon me… I’m the plumber sent by the building manager. Could you—ah—would you mind opening the door? My apologies if I’m disturbing you.”

Through the two closed doors—bedroom and apartment alike—the timbre was muffled, yet the low, even cadence was unmistakably familiar.

“…Hold on—it must be the plumber I called to fix the water heater.”

Thinking nothing amiss, I naturally ended my call with Stella and turned to open the door.

Standing in the hallway was a man I would never have expected to see.

Unlike Matthew’s distinctly mixed heritage, Arthur’s features were those of a classic, clean-cut European. Golden hair fell partly over a high forehead, lips fine-edged, nose straight and proud, eye sockets deep-set, irises an almost unnaturally vivid blue.

His long legs stood perfectly straight, unmoving. In one hand he carried a toolbox; the collar of his deep-blue coveralls revealed half a damp line of neck, his Adam’s apple rising and falling with the faintest motion.

Arthur’s expression was cold, wearing the exact look of a man thinking, *Why is it you again?* From his height advantage, he regarded me from above.

My neck began to ache from craning upward; I withdrew my gaze first, lifting a hand to rub the back of my neck before stepping aside to make way for him. “Come in.”

He said nothing, only strode past me, waterproof boots soundless against the carpet, his arm brushing my shoulder in passing.

“Oh—by the way,” I added behind him, “your eyes are impossibly blue.”

His steps halted abruptly.

Feigning ignorance of the faint flush at the tips of his ears, I quickened my pace, slipped past him, and pushed open the bathroom door.

“You work here?”

Before stepping inside, his gaze drifted toward me—deliberately or otherwise—skimming me with a fleeting, detached glance.

“I live here.”

I could tell he was telling the truth.

Bending down, he set the toolbox onto the slip-resistant tiles, the waistband of his trousers riding low at the back. I could not persuade myself to look away from the taut lines of his back muscles, nor from the suggestive edge of underwear just visible beneath.

Only when he straightened and began adjusting the water heater beside the showerhead did I smile lazily, leaning half against the doorframe.

“You live here… and work here as well?”

He seemed faintly surprised. “Mm.”

“Why? Are you short on money?”

“Mm.”

“From your accent, you sound like you’re from Oxford.”

“Mm.”

“Would you like to sleep with me?”

“…No.”

The word had barely left his lips when, perhaps by accident, his hand brushed against a switch. The showerhead roared to life, sending a cascade of droplets spilling down in an instant. It lasted barely half a second, yet it left half his body drenched.

…And drenched, he looked impossibly tempting.

The clinging weight of half-dried water pressed the fabric close to his waist, arms, and chest, the swell and cut of sinew subtly outlined beneath. Each movement he made to tinker with the heater deepened the play of muscle—flexing, shifting, carving shadows in his skin.

Even as an observer, I felt my throat tighten and dry, every restless cell in my body electric with the urge to cry out.

“Stop staring at me,” he murmured without looking away from the heater.

“…Oh.” Without the slightest sense of embarrassment, I darted forward, ran my hand once across the abs I had been coveting, and before he could speak, turned on my heel and left without a backward glance.

Later, I would have to ask him—seriously—why he would not admit he did, in fact, want to sleep with me.

Mulling over the indirect questioning techniques I might employ, I approached the half-open kitchenette, retrieved cubed watermelon from the fridge, tossed it together with potatoes for half a minute’s quick stir-fry, and finished with a scatter of black pepper and coarse salt.

The unfinished French fries and apple sauce I also set upon the counter.

When he emerged from the bathroom, damp shadows still lingered on his clothes; a faint sheen of sweat clung to his hairline, slowly evaporating in the humid air.

“I made dinner—would you like to join me?”

I pulled out a barstool, placed a gleaming, water-beaded knife and fork beside the plate, then settled opposite with a pair of chopsticks. “I imagine you don’t much want to go out dripping wet.”

He glanced at the two simple dishes, then, after a pause, shook his head with deliberate slowness.

“Oh? You seem to have a touch of hostility toward me.” Who could possibly refuse watermelon stir-fried with potatoes, or fries with apple sauce?

Though I was faintly displeased, I kept my tone light. “May I ask why?”

“…”

Expression unchanged, as cool as ever, he replied, “You’re Matthew’s ex-girlfriend.”

Rolling my chopsticks along the rim of my bowl, I spoke without thinking. “So… you don’t like me?”