There’s no camera or intercom. Weird. Everyone has a recording doorbell these days—even my neighbour who barely understands how Netflix works.
Coincidence?
I wait.
One minute.
Two.
Just as I’m about to turn and bolt, mentally berating myself for indulging this wild, criminally insane plan… the door opens.
And there he is.
Hand tattoos on full display, the intricate lines trailing up his arms—black snakes and bone fragments etched into his skin like stories no one else gets to read. He wears a fitted black T-shirt, tight enough to hint at muscle, loose enough to hide intent.
But his face is a mystery.
A bike helmet masks everything but his eyes—deep, dark, almost black—intense enough to make me step back without realising I’ve moved.
Brows furrowed.
Posture unreadable.
Silent.
God help me.
Even with half his face hidden, I can tell that he’s handsome—the dangerously charismatic kind that ruins you slowly.
And part of me aches to yank that helmet off just to see the rest.
But I’m not here to admire.
I’m here tospy.
“Can I help you?”
His voice hits like gravel—deep, unbothered, the kind that could make reading aloud from a washing machine manual sound seductive.
I have to physically reel my jaw back into place before I answer, attempting not to look like a stunned idiot.
“Uh… yes. Yes.” Brilliant. Already fumbling. “I’m from NimbusNet.”
I flash the lanyard like a badge of honour, praying he doesn’t examine it too closely.
So far, so good, I think, as I rattle off the script I’ve rehearsed.
“We’ve been tracking some connection issues in the area, and I just need to run a quick diagnostic on your router to make sure you’re still getting full coverage.”
I hold my breath.
One wrong word, one wrong flicker of suspicion in his eyes, and I’m toast.
“I didn’t realise there were any issues,” he says, vaguely. His tone isn’t defensive—just passive, like it doesn’t really matter.
I keep the momentum.
“I’ve got a letter if you’d like the details?”
