Why Does this Day Just Keep Happening?
Lola – 4:00 PM
Lola jogged to the stairs to her apartment, backpack bouncing, keys clutched in one hand, brain spiraling. She passed Baba Yaga’s door like always—
Only to freeze when the door cracked open and that mischievous, gravel-honey voice called out:
“Well, well, well. Look who’s dragging her sorry little ass home.”
Lola grimaced. Shit.
She turned slowly. “Hi, Baba Yaga.”
The woman stepped fully into view in her World’s Okayest Grandma hoodie and mismatched pink furry slippers, sipping from a mug that read ’Probably Whiskey.’ Her curls were pinned back in a mess of bobby pins, and her expression said I know things, and I plan to say all of them.
Why does this day just keep happening?
“I brought you some tea this morning,” she said casually. “Opened up with my spare key—like any good neighbor to drop it off for you.”
Lola’s blood ran cold. “You… went in my apartment?”
“Oh, don’t get twitchy. I saw what you left tied up to your bed.” She took another sip. “And let me tell you, baby girl… finally.”
Lola choked. “It’s not what it looks like!”
Yaga arched a brow. “What did it look like, then? ‘Cause to me, it looked like a six-foot-something god with murder in his eyes, hogtied with lavender rope and glaring like someone canceled his private jet.”
“I didn’t mean to kidnap him! I don’t know what’s going on,” grabbing her head on both sides in frustion.
Yaga snorted. “That’s the best sentence I’ve heard all week.”
Lola covered her face. “He’s fine. He’s alive. He’s… very mad I’m sure.”
“He asked me if I could untie him, you know. Said it real polite, like a man who doesn’t like asking for anything. I told him, ‘Probably… but I’m not going to.’” She sipped her tea. “Not my circus. Not my bed-bound beefcake.”
Lola made a strangled noise.
Yaga softened, stepping closer. “Hey. You okay, bug?”
Lola shrugged, then nodded, then shrugged again.
Yaga sighed. “You don’t have to tell me everything. But that man in there? He’s dangerous. Not bad—still water, quiet fuse. But when he moves, it’ll be on purpose.”
Lola’s throat went dry.
“He didn’t look scared. He looked… curious. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been handed.”
Lola laughed weakly. “That’s… accurate.”
Yaga stepped close and kissed her temple. “Just be careful, Lola-bug. You’ve been through enough. If he’s a gift, keep him. If he’s a trap, break his damn legs.”
Lola swallowed hard. “Thanks, Baba Yaga.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I left him some lemon bars and a juice box. I’ll be back later with stew.”
She turned back into her apartment, leaving Lola frozen on the stairs with her keys in hand, the scent of citrus and lavender wafting from the cracked door behind her.
Okay. Deep breath. You got this. You’ve handled worse.
…You’ve never handled this.
The second she opened the apartment door, the scent hit her—citrus and honeysuckle, sugar and heat, like her space was sweating out the chaos. The same smell that had clung to her skin when she woke up earlier. The one she now knew came with a side of whoops, I accidentally kidnapped a man who could snap my spine with two fingers.
She closed the door behind her, locked it, then leaned her forehead against the cool wood.
You could have untied him before you left mental face palm. Like a normal person. But no, you left him hogtied in your bed like some Dollar Store dominatrix with commitment issues.
"You're back," came a low, pissed-off voice from the bedroom.
Lola jumped.
"Jesus—do you have to talk like a Bond villain warming up for a monologue?" she muttered, kicking off her shoes and making her way down the hall.
She paused in her doorway.
He was still there.
Still tied to the bed. more mental face palms
Still glaring like he’d spent the last hour mentally drafting her obituary, but just like this morning, just sitting there calm and collected. No threats. No insults.
No. Now he was just… watching.
And somehow that was worse.
Lola crossed her arms. “You gonna say something or just glare at me until my soul combusts?”
He shifted slightly, ropes creaking beneath him. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Work.”
He blinked. “You left me here. Tied up. Alone.”
“You say that like you’re not terrifying.”
“I’m the one tied up.”
“Exactly.”
His nostrils flared.
Okay. He’s hot when he’s mad. That’s not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to have fury cheekbones.
She turned toward her desk, pretending she wasn’t noticing the way his muscles flexed even when he was mostly immobile. “Baba Yaga stopped me on the way up. She said you were rude.”
He snorted. “She force-fed me eggs and grilled me like I was marrying her daughter.”
“Yeah, she does that.”
“And then she left. Without untying me.”
“Well, I’m glad she didn’t. You’re still a potential murderer.”
He groaned. “You really think I’m here on a murder vacation?”
Lola shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “You could be. Or a hitman. Or a guy whose family runs a creepy cult with good skincare genes.”
“I’m not part of a cult.”
“That’s exactly what someone in a cult would say.”
He shifted again, tugging at the ropes. “What’s it going to take for you to untie me?”
“Time. Maybe a background check.”
“You could at least look at me when you insult me.”
Lola slowly turned to face him. Big mistake. Because now he was smirking. Just a little. Just enough to be infuriating.
Her eyes dropped—traitorously—to the sharp cut of his jaw, the broad line of his shoulders, the tangle of muscle beneath lightly tanned skin.
He saw it.
She saw him see it.
“Seriously?” he said, arching a brow.
She snapped her head up. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You were.”
“I was checking the knots.”
He let out a short laugh—dry and dangerous. “You really are something else.”
Lola moved closer, hovering just out of arm’s reach. She narrowed her eyes. “If I untie you, are you going to kill me?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned her—hair, eyes, mouth. They lingered a little too long.
“Depends,” he murmured. “Are you going to drug me again?”
She pointed a finger. “I didn’t do that! I met up with this guy Gino and he drugged me! We were chit-chatting, he handed me drink and then I woke up here with you.”
His expression changed. Just a flicker—but there it was.
“You know Gino.”
“We’ve had... sessions.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I’m a tattoo artist, not a sex worker,” she snapped.
His lips twitched. “Didn’t say you were.”
Lola turned, ready to huff off into the kitchen, when his voice stopped her cold.
“Lola.”
She froze.
Goddamn, how does he say my name like that? Like it’s a fucking threat and a confession all at once.
“What?” she asked without turning around.
“Thank you.”
She turned halfway back toward him. “For what?”
“For the pillow.”
She blinked.
“…Don’t mention it," it was this moment she scurried to the kitchen to take a breather and get him something to eat. Unfortunalty for him the only thing eadible in there was Key Lime pie yogurt. “Would you like some yogurt? You must be starving and this is the only thing in my fridge.”
He looked at her, trying to figure this girl out, “Yes, I actually am very hungry now.” The statement just hung in the air between them because she had yet to make a move to untie him.
“So. Gino.”
She blinked, mid-scoop. “What about him?”
“You said this was his fault.”
Lola sighed, letting the spoon hover midair like it was caught in limbo. “Yeah. He’s a client—regular at the shop. Never shuts up during sessions, but he’s… harmless. I thought.”
Enzo’s brow lifted, slow and skeptical. “You thought?”
She shrugged. “He convinced me to meet him at Burning Man. Said I needed to blow off steam after my ex lit my entire life on fire. I didn’t want to go alone, and he seemed like a dumb, chaotic distraction. Not dangerous.”
“You two close?”
“Not really. Work friends at best. Festival acquaintances with matching glowsticks at worst.”
“You trust him?”
“I didn’t say that.” She finally fed him another bite of yogurt, watching him chew like it offended his ancestors. “But he’s never done anything... shady. Not until now.”
Enzo’s jaw ticked. “He didn’t mention me?”
Lola shot him a look. “Should he have?”
“He’s my cousin and works for me.”
“Yeah, got that now.”
“He never said my name?”
“He said something once about working for his cousin, but I assumed that meant coffee runs. Or maybe he was, like, managing your OnlyFans account. I don’t know.”
Enzo huffed a dry laugh. “Gino doesn’t manage anything.”
“Clearly.”
He studied her face for a moment, like he was trying to gauge whether she was bluffing. But Lola wasn’t. She really hadn’t known. If she had, there was no way in hell she would’ve woken up with a literal Greek statue tied up to her headboard.
She looked at him again. A beat of quiet passed between them.
Then she said, “You’re really not gonna let the yogurt go, are you?”
“It tastes like punishment.”
“It tastes like citrusy joy.”
“It tastes like someone dared a key lime to exist without dignity.”
She smiled. He didn’t.
But he also didn’t look quite so furious anymore.
He was quiet for a long time after the Gino conversation. Too quiet. Lola wasn’t sure if he was plotting her murder or just mentally adding her to a list of people to never speak to again.
She shoved the now-empty yogurt cup into the trash can beside the desk and wiped her hands on her jeans. That weird tension—simmering just under the surface—had only grown worse with every spoonful.
“Lola,” Enzo said, his voice low. Almost… hesitant.
Her heart jumped. “Yeah?”
He cleared his throat. “So. We’ve danced around this long enough.”
Lola, still seated cross-legged on the floor next to the bed, tilted her head. “Around what?”
He gave her a meaningful look, then jerked his chin toward his tied hands. “I have to pee.”