3. Mallory
Mallory
By the time I made it into the main lobby of my apartment building six hours later, my shoulders were aching, my sneakers felt like they were made of lead, and my sports bra had been cutting into my ribs for approximately four hours too long.
I just wanted to get upstairs, put on sweatpants, and eat something that came from a box that didn’t require effort.
I hit the numbered button for my floor, one hand already rummaging in my bag for my keys when someone called out “Hold the elevator!”
I reached out automatically, wedging my arm between the closing doors and pressing the button to hold them open.
The door slowly revealing a familiar figure precariously, bounding in her direction – juggling three oversized grocery bags in his hands and an oversized duffle on his back.
How he managed that on crutches, the world may never know.
Low and behold, Jaymie Prescott.
Of course.
“Wow,” I said, eyeing the bags of grocerys, as he clumsily maneuvered into the elevator, “are you hosting a dinner party for ten or feeding a small village?”
He blew out a breath, shifting the bags to one side with the finesse of someone who clearly did not carry groceries often. “Stopped at my mom’s. She saw me hobbling and went into immediate action. This is her subtle way of saying I’m incapable of basic survival.”
I glanced down at the bags. “This is subtle?”
“You should’ve seen what she packed the last time I had a sinus infection.”
A laugh bubbled up from my chest before I could stop it. “You’ve got, what—lasagna, meatballs, salad, deli meat, a loaf of bread the size of my arm… is that a pie?”
“Peach,” he said proudly, then added, “and blueberry. She believes in options and cans her own fruit in the summer so she can make pie year round.”
I pressed the button for my floor, shaking my head with a grin. “Okay but seriously… Jaymie?”
“Yeah? ”
“You’re not stalking me, are you?”
He froze, one foot slightly in front of the other, glasses slipping low on his nose. “What?”
“I mean, showing up here? Same building? Right as I get home?” I gave him a sideways glance. “It’s strange. You sure this isn’t a calculated move to charm your way into extra PT brownie points?”
“I—what? No! I didn’t know you lived here!” he said, horrified. His voice cracked slightly. “I’m not—God, I swear I’m not a creep.”
I laughed. “Relax, Prescott. I’m kidding, a little”
He pushed his glasses up his nose, flustered in a way that made something in my stomach do a little flip. “Okay, well, just to clarify for the record—I’ve lived here since last season. Tenth floor.” He pushes the corresponding button and the elevator starts to shift upwards.
My eyebrows lifted. “No kidding?”
“What floor are you on?”
“Eighth. I moved in this summer when I started interviewing for the Hellblades. Even if I didn't get the job, I still wanted to be in Chicago.”
We both blinked at each other.
“No way,” he said, shifting the bags again. “We’ve lived in the same building this whole time?”
“Apparently.”
“Huh.”
“Huh,” I echoed, fighting the urge to smile too hard .
For a moment, we just stood there. The elevator humming quietly around us. The scent of garlic and tomato sauce wafting from his bags, mingling with the clean citrus of my post-workout deodorant. We weren’t touching. Weren’t even standing that close. But somehow, the air between us felt… charged.
“I mean,” he said, breaking the silence, “if I was stalking you, this would be a pretty bad strategy. Grocery bags and all.”
“Depends on the food,” I said, pretending to inspect one of the Tupperware containers. “What’s in that one?”
He grinned. “Stuffed shells.”
My stomach growled. Traitor.
“Well, now you’re just showing off.”
Jaymie hesitated for a second, then nudged one of the bags in my direction. “Okay, so hear me out, dinner at my place? As a thank-you for helping me not die this morning. And maybe as a soft bribe to keep being gentle during my sessions.”
I gave him a look. “You want to feed me in exchange for professional leniency?”
“Not feed you,” he said quickly. “I mean, yes, food. But not like a... not like a transactional—I’m not trying to buy your kindness. That sounded so much better in my head.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m aware ,” he groan-muttered, cheeks tinged pink .
I leaned back against the elevator wall, arms crossed. “So let me get this straight. You want me to come upstairs—”
He nodded cautiously.
“—to your apartment”
Another nod, more wary this time.
“where you will ply me with carbs and charm to gain my professional favor?”
He blinked. “When you say it like that it sounds so much worse.”
I laughed, unable to help it. "It’s kind of adorable.”
He exhaled. “Thank God. Because I am very close to dropping this entire bag of meatballs mixed with my shame.”
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal the eighth floor. My floor.
I stepped into the hallway, turned back, and caught the still-flustered look on Jaymie’s face.
“Rain check on the lasagna, Prescott,” I said, stepping backward. Waves of basil, tomato and parmesan waft in my direction. "It does smell really good, total rain check,"
He looked confused, then a little hopeful.
“Really?”
A small smirk caught on the corner of my lip, “Maybe. Next time you tempt me with Italian comfort food, lead with that instead of the ‘I’m full of meatballs and ulterior motives’ thing.”
He laughed, and I swear I could feel it in my chest.
The doors began to close.
“Goodnight, Quince,” he called, his voice low and still smiling.
“Night, Prescott,” I said, walking to my apartment with a grin I couldn’t shake.