Lacee Daniels

Olivia

Here we go again. Another new start. After two years of dating and one year of cohabitating in what I have to remind myself is technically Ben’s house, he finally proposed. We soon realized the existing space wouldn’t cut it—especially the outdated kitchen. I like to think I’m a decent cook, but even I can see how a more efficient and larger counterspace with modern appliances could elevate my culinary game. So, that’s how we find ourselves in this gorgeous beachfront apartment, boasting views that could make a postcard jealous. This will be our sanctuary for the next seven or eight months.

When I’m not lost in the world of my crime fiction, I’m dedicating my time to the things that bring me joy and keep me grounded. Most mornings, I lace up my running shoes, do yoga, or head to the gym. I adore the solace of music, letting it wash over me as I water my beloved plants or lose hours with a gripping book.

My friends often joke about my matchmaking tendencies; I can’t help but try to find everyone their perfect partner. Ironically, while I’m engrossed in these hobbies, Ben is often away, deeply engrossed in overseeing the renovation of our future home. Our lives seem to run on parallel tracks, rarely intersecting.

And so, our relationship is on the rocks—maybe even at the bottom of the ocean—and the clock is ticking toward our December deadline, when we’ll move back into our renovated home.

Right now, my immediate priority is to get this apartment in shape for Ben’s arrival. I want to create a seamless transition for him so he can dive straight into his work from his new home office. Thankfully, the movers have already done the heavy lifting, unwrapping furniture and whisking away what felt like a mountain of empty boxes. All that’s left for me is a life-sized game of Tetris, arranging each piece throughout the apartment. This is the part I actually enjoy!

I lose myself in the next four hours, rearranging end tables and lamps as if they’re chess pieces in an ongoing strategic battle for aesthetic perfection. Not once, not twice, but multiple times, I shift them until they’re positioned just so. Simultaneously, I tackle the rest of the apartment, cleaning every surface and corner with meticulous care. I fluff pillows, fold linens, and arrange them in the linen closet like a display at a high-end department store.

The kitchen becomes my next project. I unpack boxes of utensils, sort them into drawers, and alphabetize my spice rack because, well, why not? After all, a well-organized kitchen is the backbone of a well-organized life—or so I like to think. Once the kitchen is done, I turn my attention to the walk-in closet, changing our clothes with the precision of a retail associate during peak shopping season.

Finally, I recall that there are still a few boxes lingering in the trunk of my car. Grabbing the keys, I make my way through the apartment corridor and take the hall leading to the gym. From there, it’s just a few steps down to the parking area. I opt for this route over the elevator, which I’ve learned moves at a pace that could only be described as glacial.

The gym door swings open, and I’m immediately struck by a disarming smile that seems to illuminate the room. His eyes follow, intense and magnetic, pulling me into an orbit I didn’t request. He’s dressed in ADIDAS shorts and a form-fitting workout shirt that’s predominantly black—showing off a body that’s clearly been worked on.

He exudes an Italianesque, simple sophistication. There’s an electric charge in the air. I’m doing everything not to walk into the gym equipment that suddenly seems to be everywhere.

I force myself to move, my feet carrying me past him and toward the staircase. My mind races.

What are you doing, Olivia? You’re engaged. This isn’t you; you don’t ogle strangers. But even as I make my way down the steps, I know this is going to be a problem—because it’s rare that anyone steals my attention like this, and he’s just hijacked it completely.

I haul my remaining boxes from the car, deliberately choosing the front entrance this time. No way am I going back through that gym. The elevator can’t come soon enough. The resolution is crystal clear: I don’t need to see him again. Ever. With a relationship that’s fraying at the edges, the last thing I need is a temptation masquerading as a distraction. Especially when that distraction is distractingly good-looking.

The next morning, I’m heading down the stairs to the outside with my dog, Gino, on our way to a run. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him by the coffee maker next to the door. He’s in my peripheral vision, and though I can’t say for certain, it seems like he’s looking in my direction. I don’t give myself a chance to think it over—I break into a run, Gino eagerly matching my pace.

Later, as I settle into my makeshift workspace downstairs in the common area for residents, he makes another appearance. This time, he’s dressed in his military fatigues. Why does he have to look this striking? It’s like the universe is testing my willpower. To drown him out, I plunge into my playlist, filling my ears with sweet melodies. But even as the music plays, my mind spins fantasies about what his touch might feel like. I stay up half the night tortured by my own imagination.

In the weeks that follow, our run-ins become less frequent. Deliberately, I adjust my timings, rerouting my daily schedule to dodge any chance of encountering him. It works, but after a month, the absence becomes a nagging itch I can’t ignore. I switch back to my usual timing... hoping to see him again. He’s nowhere to be found. Did he also adjust his routine to avoid me? Or is this some form of emotional retribution? Either way, the absence stings.

Then, after two more weeks, it happens. I’m unlocking my apartment door one morning to head inside after my walk with Gino, and there he is. No warning, no far-off sighting to cushion the surprise—just his beautiful smile. I look far from my best.

There’s a magnetism about him that never diminishes-each encounter, every accidental glance, has the same intoxicating pull. He’s always impeccably put together, a paradigm of fitness and grooming. But it’s that smile—the one that’s invaded my daydreams more times than I care to admit—that becomes the focal point of my fantasies.

His smile interrupts my gaze, and for a split second, I’m pulled into the allure of his mouth, then back to his captivating eyes.

“Hi,” he utters, effortlessly.

“Hi,” I stammer back, a reluctant grin stretching across my face.

As he glances down at my eager pup, he comments, “I see you have a dog.”

“Yes,” I respond, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m here with my fiancé́. We have a place in another city, but we’re staying here temporarily during our house renovation.”

His eyebrows lift slightly in understanding.

“So, you’re here just for a short while then?”

I nod, confirming, “From April to December.”

He continues down the hallway, his path leading him towards the gym. My fingers awkwardly grapple with the door lock. My gaze involuntarily follows him, tracing the lines and curves of his athletic build. How is it that I’m feeling this pull? This isn’t like me. I’ve dedicated my heart elsewhere, yet here I am, utterly distracted by another.

Silently shutting the door behind me, I find myself battling a longing to invite him in, perhaps for a relaxed glass of wine. But the cascade of thoughts that follow quickly dampen that wishful thinking. Would he perceive me as desperate? Maybe a tad unhinged? The sting of potential rejection looms large, threatening to shatter the pristine fantasy I’ve carefully built around him.

It’s likely he sees me as that overly eager neighbor, forever in his way, always too pleased by accidental encounters.

The realization settles in—we must share the same floor. Just perfect. Now, every entry and exit from my sanctuary carries the thrill and trepidation of potentially bumping into him, the very man whose mere presence seems to dismantle my hard-won resolve.

Gino wakes me up early the next morning. I strap him to the leash, and we head out of the apartment, through the gym as Gino is terrified of elevators.

Then I see him again. He’s in full workout glory, his arms extending upward to grip a weighty barbell. The muscles in his arms flex with a rhythmic intensity. Our eyes meet, a wordless connection made more significant by what comes next: he winks.

My heart flips, caught in a bizarre limbo between plummeting and taking flight. What does that wink signify? Is he truly interested? Within the confines of my thoughts, scenarios unfold at warp speed, each more confusing than the last.

Forcing myself to break eye contact, I focus on guiding Gino toward the stairs, my fingers almost numb around the leash. But even as I put physical distance between us, the emotional geography proves harder to navigate. That simple, fleeting wink has complicated everything, and I’m left grappling with questions I shouldn’t even be asking. Not now. Not when I’m already committed elsewhere.

I shake my head, as if the motion could scatter the unsettling thoughts crowding my mind. Leading Gino out of the gym and down the stairwell, we emerge into the open air. It’s usually refreshing, a kind of natural reset button for my scattered thoughts. Not today. Today, the air feels thick, almost stifling, laden with unspoken possibilities and choices I shouldn’t be contemplating.

Once back in my apartment, I feed Gino and toss him his favorite stuffed animal, Lambchop. He gleefully attacks it, his enthusiasm for simple joys is such a contrast to my current emotional whirlwind. Gino settles easily, content in his little world.

But me? I’m the opposite—far from settled and instead, restless and teetering on the edge of an internal precipice.

It shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t be entertaining these feelings or thoughts. And yet, here I am, wrestling with an emotional turmoil sparked by mere glances and a wink. It’s not like me to be so easily rattled, and that alone sends a wave of discomfort through me. I’m in a committed relationship; my heart should be immovable. But is it? With every unexpected encounter with him, that cornerstone of certainty seems to erode just a little more.

The next morning, I’m fumbling with my bags of groceries in the hallway when Mrs. Thompson, my next-door neighbor, appears.

“Let me help you with that, dear,” she offers, taking a couple of bags from my hands.

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. I was beginning to think I’d have to make two trips.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. It’s what neighbors are for!”

We head into my apartment, and as we unload the groceries, she starts her usual chit-chat.

“Did you see the new tenant? The tall, handsome one?”

I feel a knot form in my stomach. “Oh? Do tell.”

“He’s from Germany, here on NATO business. Quite charming. His name is Alex. I like to call him Officer Alex.” Alex. So that’s his name. A German NATO Officer. It adds a certain mystique to him. But why should that matter? I’ve got more pressing matters at hand.

“Sounds interesting,” I manage to say.

“Yes, well, he lives on our floor. Maybe you’ll run into him. He’s quite the gentleman. Helped me with my groceries just yesterday.”

“Is that so? Well, it’s always nice to have courteous neighbors,” I say, feeling a sense of urgency to change the topic. “Thank you again for the help, Mrs. Thompson.”

“My pleasure, dear. You take care now,” she says, giving me a knowing smile as she heads out the door.

I lean against the door and let out a sigh. Alex. German. NATO. The details stick in my mind, making him even more intriguing and enigmatic. But why? I’m engaged, for crying out loud. I shouldn’t be this curious about another man, especially one who seems to have the ability to completely derail my thoughts with something as simple as a wink.

I plop into my desk chair. My fingers hover over the laptop keyboard before tapping out, “meaning of winking in Germany.” I hit Enter and peruse the search results, clicking on articles that promise to decode this small but unsettling gesture.

After scanning through multiple pieces, I come across one that explains winking in Germany could just be an alternative to a wave, particularly when one’s hands are busy. It’s a functional, casual signal. That could be it—he was mid-lift, his hands full, quite literally, with a weighty barbell. No room for waving.

But even as I read this seemingly innocuous explanation, another thought settles in the back of my mind: He still chose to acknowledge me. His eyes met mine and he winked. He could have easily focused on his workout, remained enveloped in his own world. But he didn’t. And that choice, that simple flicker of connection, fuels my already teetering emotional state.

It’s like a pebble in my shoe during a long hike; it shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t affect me, but impossible to ignore. And as I sit there, staring at the cursor blinking on my screen, I’m forced to acknowledge that a tiny wink has me reevaluating boundaries I thought were rock solid.

I recline into my chair, my fingertips massaging my temples as if they could knead the confusion out of my mind. This shouldn’t be a thing; it shouldn’t be bothering me. I’m in a relationship—a wobbly one, granted, but committed, nonetheless. My objective is straightforward: sort things out with Ben, not get derailed by an attractive stranger whose name hasn’t even graced my ears.

What’s wrong with me? Why does a total stranger have the power to disrupt my emotional equilibrium?

My eyes dart to the wall clock; its hands tick closer to Ben’s arrival time. He’ll be walking through that door in just a few hours. Emotionally speaking, I’m a jigsaw puzzle with pieces scattered far from where they should be. And time is running out.

I have a relationship to mend, a house to manage, and absolutely no time for mysterious men who throw me off balance with a single wink. And yet, as I rise to get started on my remaining chores, I can’t shake off the feeling that something, or someone, has just unsettled my carefully orchestrated life.

My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s a message from Ben, saying he’s on his way and will be here in a couple of hours. I look around my still cluttered apartment. I need to focus. I need to put my energy into what really matters—fixing my relationship, making this temporary home as welcoming as possible, and ignoring the allure of a man named Alex who lives just a few doors down.

The door opens and there he is—Ben, looking as laid-back as ever, a smile stretching across his face.

“Hey babe, missed you,” he says, pulling me into a warm embrace.

“I missed you too,” I reply, but my words lack the enthusiasm I know they should have.

He sets down his guitar case—his latest passion project—in the living room and kicks off his shoes.

“Wow, the place looks great!”

“Thanks. I wanted it to feel like home,” I say, gesturing toward the dinner table, perfectly set for a cozy meal.

Dinner is pleasant but forgettable, much like most of our recent interactions. Ben talks about the new tune he’s learning on his guitar, and I catch myself drifting off, my mind betraying me as it wanders back to Alex. I shake it off, reminding myself to be present. Ben deserves that much.

After dinner, we migrate to the balcony, a glass of wine in hand for me, a beer for him. He leans against the railing, looking out at the ocean, lost in thought about boats, or maybe it’s airplanes this time. It’s hard to keep up with his ever-changing interests, funded, of course, by his trust fund.

I appreciate Ben’s lightness, his ability to make me laugh when things get too heavy. He’s kind, he’s fun, and he’s incredibly generous, always bringing me thoughtful little gifts that show he cares, even if he isn’t the best with details. Like tonight, he brought me a beautiful bouquet of lilies, knowing how much I enjoy fresh flowers, even though he is well aware that species is my least favorite due to the uncontrollable sneezing caused by its powerful smell. His forgetfulness is endearing, but also one of the many little things that make me question our long-term compatibility.

The night winds down. Ben picks up his guitar and starts strumming, his fingers nimbly dancing over the strings. He’s good, and I find myself tapping my foot along to the melody. But even as I sit there listening to him play, my thoughts are elsewhere. They’re wandering down the hall, to a mysterious German NATO Officer with captivating eyes and a wink that’s thrown my entire world off balance.

Ben senses that I’m not fully there and stops playing. “You okay, Liv? You seem a little off tonight.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“Well, we should call it a night then,” he says, trusting my words completely as he always does. “We’ve got all the time in the world to catch up.”

Yes, all the time in the world, I think as I watch him put away his guitar and head to the bedroom. But what scares me is that time is exactly what I’ve been contemplating lately. How much of it do I want to spend in a relationship that’s starting to feel like it’s on autopilot? And why can’t I shake off the unsettling feeling that a stranger named Alex has suddenly made that question far more complicated than it should be...

The morning sun streams through the windows, casting golden rays across the living room. Ben’s already gone, off to a business meeting or maybe another flight lesson—his schedule’s as unpredictable as his interests. I glance at the vacant spot on the couch where his guitar case had been. Even when he’s here, it sometimes feels like he’s not, and the silence now enveloping the apartment seems to amplify that feeling.

I need a change of scenery. A distraction. Pulling on a swimsuit and grabbing my beach bag, I head down to the apartment’s pool area. The very moment I step through the gate and check in with the lifeguard, my eyes find him—Alex. He’s in the pool, swimming with a focus and intensity that seem almost out of place in such a laid-back setting.

Choosing a lounge chair with a strategic view, I lay down my towel and settle in. Sunglasses on, wide-brimmed hat strategically placed, I pull out the novel I’ve been meaning to read but find myself unable to focus on the words. Instead, my eyes keep drifting over the top of my book, discreetly observing him as he cuts through the water.

And then, as if granting an unspoken wish, he climbs out of the pool. Water droplets cascade down his frame as he walks over to the outdoor shower, his muscles subtly contracting with each step. He turns on the shower, letting the water rush over him as he rinses off the chlorine.

It’s like a scene straight out of a movie, and for a moment, I catch myself wondering: Is this actually happening?

My heart is pounding, a confusing mix of guilt and thrill coursing through me. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I have a good man, one who trusts me implicitly, who would be crushed if he knew where my thoughts have been straying. Yet here I am, a silent spectator to a real-life daydream, captivated by a man I barely know but feel strangely drawn to.

I finally force myself to look away, and my eyes land on the empty pages of my book. They’re blank, waiting to be filled with words, much like the undefined space that’s settled between Ben and me. I lay there, pondering the uncertainty of it all. One thought remains constant: Whatever is happening with Alex, it’s complicating questions I didn’t even realize I had. And the answers, it seems, are as elusive as the enigmatic German who’s just reentered the pool.

My heart skips a beat as I see Alex turn in my direction. For a fleeting, tantalizing moment, I think he’s walking toward me. My breath catches, my pulse quickens, but then the reality sets in-he’s claimed a lounge chair just a few spots down from mine. Close, but not close enough to suggest anything more than coincidence. He sprawls out, not entirely unlike how Ben would, but with a different energy. He extracts a book from his bag and starts reading, fully engrossed.

Seizing the opportunity and throwing caution to the wind, I discreetly unlock my phone. Feeling like a character in some spy thriller, I angle it just so, making it look like I’m texting or browsing, and snap a few photos of him. My heart’s pounding so loud I’m almost sure he can hear it. I justify my action by telling myself it’s for later—for those long nights when Ben’s preoccupied with one of his myriad hobbies and I’m left pondering the what-ifs.

For the first time, I’m seeing Alex in the sheer intimacy of sun and skin, his muscles outlined by natural light, his presence so near yet emotionally so far away. It’s both exhilarating and guilt inducing. I toggle back to my home screen, wondering if my actions crossed some invisible line.

Soon enough, he gathers his belongings and leaves. Just like that, he’s gone, leaving me blessed with a vision of his almost naked body and the torture of my increasingly complex feelings. Was it something I did? Could he have sensed the click of my camera, felt the weight of my gaze?

I’m left to wrestle with my thoughts. Am I turning into that creepy person who’s making him uncomfortable? Or is this a game he’s playing, knowingly igniting feelings within me he has no intention of reciprocating? My mind cycles through the possibilities, each more confounding than the last.

Does he know the turmoil he’s causing, the questions he’s raising? Or am I just another face in the crowd, my emotional whirlwind going unnoticed? The questions plague me long after I’ve packed up my own things and retreated to the sanctity of my apartment. There, amidst my well-organized chaos, one thing is certain: Alex is unsettling my world, and I have no idea how far the ripples will spread.