As the door swings further, the full reality crashes down: my apartment is a disaster zone, completely trashed.
The living room is worse—cushions ripped from the sofa, stuffing spilling out like wounds. The television screen is cracked, spiderwebs radiating from a central point of impact. My laptop lies open on the floor, the screen shattered, keys scattered around it like teeth knocked out in a fight. Papers from my desk are strewn everywhere, some torn, others crumpled into balls, my careful organization reduced to chaos.Every drawer is pulled out, every closet door stands open, their contents dumped onto the floor with careless disregard.
My breath catches in my throat, the air thick with the metallic tang of fear and the cloying sweetness of spoiled milk. This wasn't just a burglary; it was a deliberate, malicious destruction of everything that made this spacemine. The sheer violence of it sends a cold sweat down my spine, and my mind races.
Who would do this? Why?
My hands tremble as I fumble for my phone. This has never happened to me before. I don't understand.
After calling the police, I dial Vince. I can hear his engine starting before I've even finished describing the scene.He’s here in half the time it would conceivably take him to drive over and pick me up for a run.
On the other hand,thepolice take forever to arrive.
Vince fills the oppressive silence with a tirade about the disparities in police response times across Los Angeles neighborhoods, his voice growing louder with each word. He paces my small living room, his boots crunching over broken glass as he gestures animatedly, recounting how officers showed up within five minutes at his place just to help get a neighbor's cat off his roof.
His frustration is palpable as he contrasts this with the agonizing wait we've endured, each minute stretching into an eternity while my violated space remains untouched byanofficial investigation.
His face flushes with anger, jaw tight as he emphasizes the injustice of it all, how his "privileged neighborhood" gets immediate attention while my apparently less important caseisn't prioritized in the slightest. Hedescribes the cat rescue in vivid detail—the officers' gentle coaxing, the small ladder they brought specifically for the purpose, how they even stayed to make sure the terrified animal was safely back inside—while I sit here surrounded by wreckage, with nothing but his protective presence for comfort.
Who would do this? Why? I don't own anything of real value. Nothing seems to be missing. What if they had been waiting for me inside?
I feel utterly violated.
This isn't just a break-in. Itfeels personal, as if someone wanted to shake me to my very foundation.
We take a breather and head outside.Vince sits beside me on the curb, his hand enveloping mine as I rest my head on his shoulder. He gives my hand a firm squeeze, pulling me from my thoughts.
"You okay, Andy?"
I smile, kissing his shoulder before leaning back against him. "I'm fine."
He laughs, kissing the side of my head. "Oh.Fine, huh?"
My laughter breaks free as I sit back up to look at him.
"You can't stay here, you know," he says quietly, stubbornness hardening his expression.
"What?"
"You're not staying here. We don't know who did this."
"This is my home..." I frown. "I'm staying here. Where else would I stay?"
"You'll stay here when you get new locks. And cameras. And a security system of some kind."
I laugh. "You're funny."
His glare doesn't waver. "You think I'm joking?"
"I can't afford a security system, you dork. Or cameras. Or paying LA rent prices and not staying here—"
"You'll stay with me," Vince says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I'll talk to your landlord about a rent adjustment."
I open my mouth to protest, but he's already shaking his head, that stubborn set to his jaw I've come to know so well. Before our disagreement can gain traction, the wail of sirens finally cuts through the neighborhood's calm.Apatrol car pullsup to the curb, lightsnowflashing silently.
The detective—a weary-lookingmanwith kind eyes—asks to speak with me alone. Vince's jaw tightens, but he nods, his hand squeezing mine once before he turns to leave.
"I'll grab us some tea from the café down the street," he says, his voice softer now. At thecardoor, he pauses, turning back with that smile that makes my chest ache. "Don't forget to pack an overnight bag," he adds, as if it's already settled that I'll be staying with him.
