[Hazel]
Inside my apartment, Elijah was sitting on the couch like a disappointed professor waiting to fail a student who forgot the assignment.
His arms were folded across his chest, one brow arched high, and his jaw was so tight it could cut glass. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just… stared.
If looks could kill, I’d already be haunting this apartment as a bitter, juice-serving ghost.
My hand trembled as I poured juice into a glass. The glug-glug of the liquid sounded way too loud in the silence. I forced a smile — the kind that probably looked like I was trying to sell him a haunted blender — and tiptoed toward him like I was approaching a sleeping lion with low blood sugar.
I gently set the glass on the coffee table like it was an offering to an ancient deity. “Here’s your juice,
