Bunny

Beguilement Snared the Bunny

Lucinda

I don't know why it bothers me that I've never been inside James' apartment, only that it suddenly does.
It's not like I've never noticed that we've only ever hung out in my apartment. Of course I have. We live next door to each other, separated by a thin wall and a hallway that smells like old carpet and burnt coffee. I know the sound of his lock clicking into place and the cadence of his footsteps when he's tired versus when he's restless. I know when he's up late because the floorboards seem to creak louder after midnight.
But knowing those things never felt strange... until recently.
I stand outside his door longer than I should, my hand hovering above the knob. I tell myself I'm waiting for the right moment, as if knocking requires timing, like this hasn't been our routine for over a year. One night a month was ours. The arcade bar down the street became our spot for drinks, games, and a long conversation where we empty out our lives and problems like pockets turned inside out.
Finally, I knock on the door to snap myself out of it.
There's an audible pause on the other side. Not silence exactly, but more like movement stopping and something shifting.
The door opens, and James fills the doorway with his broad shoulders, dark hoodie, and damp hair. One hand stays on the door frame behind him, fingers curled around it as if he's anchoring himself there.
"Hey, Sunshine," he says, his smile slipping into place. "You ready?"
I glance past him without meaning to. The apartment behind him is dim, shadows layered on shadows. I can't see much, just a sliver of wall and the edge of something I can't identify. There's a smell, too. Not cologne, not food. Something sharper, cleaner, but familiar.
"Yeah," I say, forcing my gaze back to him.
He nods, steps out, and pulls the door shut behind him with more purpose than usual and the lock clicks into place when he puts his key in.
Whatever I thought I might find stays sealed inside.
We fall into step beside each other, shoulder to shoulder, heading down the street toward the glow of neon lights in the distance. The arcade bar is already humming when we get there, music thumping through the walls, laughter spilling out every time the door opens.
Inside, it's exactly the same as always. It's loud in a way that feels comforting. Bright flashes of disco lights and the smell of spilled beer and fryer oil clinging to everything.
We slide into our usual booth without saying a word. James orders for both of us, and the bartender nods before he finishes. I watch him while he talks, the way his hands move when he's relaxed, how he leans back like he belongs anywhere he sits.
  Nothing seems to ever gets under his skin.
Our drinks arrive and he slides mine across the table without looking, he already knows where my hand will be.
"Careful," he says casually. "It's strong tonight."
I take a sip anyway. "You say that every time."
"And every time you ignore me."
"That's because you're dramatic. I can hold my liquor."
He scoffs, leaning back in the booth. "You wound me, Sunshine."
I take another sip, the alcohol burning just enough to make my shoulders drop a little.
James watches me over the rim of his glass. "Already less terrifying."
I blink at him. "Excuse you?"
He smirks slightly, turning the glass in his hand. "You looked a little tense during the walk here."
"I was not tense."
"You were," he says easily. "Your shoulders were all the way up here." He lifts his own shoulders toward his ears to demonstrate. "They nearly reached mine."
I roll my eyes, taking another sip of my drink.
"Maybe I just didn't feel like listening to you talk."
"Sure," he says, unconvinced.
For a moment we just sit there, the low music from the bar mixing with the distant crash of bowling pins.
"Better now?"
I pretend to think about it. "Slightly."
"Good."
I slide out of the booth, finishing the last of my drink. "Don't get comfortable though."
"Oh?" he says, standing too.
"Yeah," I reply, grabbing my bowling shoes as we step toward the lanes. "Because I'm about to destroy you, Jelly Bear."
"In your dreams, Sunshine. So," James adds, his tone easy and casual, as he rolls the bowling ball back and forth between his hands. "Anyone new?"
I shrug, eyes on the pins instead of him. "Not really. I messed with Asher again for a few weeks. He got bored but he'll be back, you know how he is."
"He might be intimidated by you. You can be scary with men at times." James says.
I let out a chuckle and snort at the same time. "Or, he's just realized I'm emotionally unavailable."
He huffs then laughs. "Yeah, that must be it."
"Don't sound so convinced," I say, lining up my shot.
"I'm just saying," he replies, leaning back in his seat, "guys don't usually walk away from you unless they're scared of something or cheating."
I release the ball, watching it roll down the lane. "And he'd be scared of what, exactly?"
He shrugs. "Depth. Personality. The fact that you can read them in five minutes and still choose to be chaotic."
"Wow," I say, deadpan. "Put that on my dating profile."
He smirks and flicks his gaze to me. "What, should we warn them? Careful, Lucy might secretly have a kink that ruins your life."
I laugh. But for half a second, my mind betrays me. The image of certain kinks slips in, uninvited. The pressure and stillness from ropes. The feeling of being held in place, completely under someone else's control. My stomach flips, heat curling low before I shove the thought away as quickly as it came.
I clear my throat to shake off the thought. "You're absolutely ridiculous."
His gaze lingers on me a bit too long, something curious flickering there, almost catching something and then it's gone.
We're mid-game when she approaches.
She's confident, casual, and leaning into James's space. "Hey," she says. "Jamie..."
James straightens immediately. "Hi, Cassi."
She glances at me, then back at him. "We talked about getting together again, or did you forget, again."
I smile, but I know it doesn't reach my eyes. "I'm going to grab another drink."
By the time I return, she's gone. James is quieter, his jaw set in a way that makes my stomach uneasy.
"What was that about?" I ask, trying to sound neutral.
He shrugs a little too quickly. "Just a high school ex."
There's a pause, like he's weighing something. Then, "It's nothing."
I nod, even though it doesn't feel like nothing.
We keep playing. Laughing. Making stupid bets. At one point, James grins and says, "Hundred bucks says I introduce you to a partner before the month is over."
"You're on," I say immediately. "Winner gets bragging rights too."
Outside later, the night air cools my skin. We stop at our doors, five feet apart.
"Good luck," he says softly.
I smile. "Same to you. Maybe bowling lane girl will be the one." I wink.
Something unreadable crosses his face.
"Yeah," he says. "Maybe."
I watch him disappear into his apartment, the door clicking shut between us, and for once, I don't think being curious is wrong at all.
There's a specific door in his apartment I've noticed today.
And I don't know how long I can pretend I don't want it open.

✧❈✿✤✿❈✧

I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor with my sketchbook spread open in front of me, pencil smudges on my fingers, eraser crumbs collecting near the spine. The room I'm drawing doesn't exist yet, just lines and ideas, a living space softened by warm lighting and textured fabrics. I shade in a low couch, imagining throw pillows in muted tones and plants trailing from shelves that don't even exist yet.
It's work. Technically. Or at least it's the part of work I enjoy.
I'm halfway through sketching a lamp when I smell it.
Paint.
It's faint at first, like a ghost of something familiar, sharp and clean cutting through the stale apartment air. I pause, pencil hovering mid stroke, and breathe in again just to be sure.
There it is.
I wrinkle my nose, glancing toward my own supplies stacked neatly in the corner. No open cans. No solvents. No reason for my apartment to smell of fresh paint at nearly nine o'clock at night.
The smell drifts again, stronger this time, slipping through the invisible cracks in the wall as if it knows I'm paying attention now.
James.
The thought comes uninvited, immediate and intrusive.
I shake my head, scoffing softly to myself. "No," I mutter, because for some reason, saying it out loud might banish the idea. James isn't a painting guy. He's not the type. He grew up military everything, discipline, structure, rules carved into bone. His whole life seemed built on things that were solid and practical and unapologetically masculine.
Painting doesn't fit into that picture.
Art feels too soft. Too vulnerable. Too, exposed. At least for him.
And James has never struck me as someone who lets himself be exposed.
I tap my pencil against the page, trying to rationalize it away. Maybe someone else in the building is redecorating. Maybe it's coming from downstairs. Maybe it's just my imagination filling in blanks it has no business touching.
God, Lucy, stop being weird.
I shut the sketchbook with more force than necessary, suddenly hyper aware of how nosy I'm being. Since when do I track smells through walls like I'm trying to catch someone in a lie? I don't even know what I think I'd find if it were him.
The thought alone makes my chest feel weird.
I glance at my phone on the coffee table and freeze.
9:32.
I'm cutting it close.
"Shit," I mutter, scrambling to my feet.
I slide my sketchbook back onto the shelf, tucking it away. The smell of paint lingers faintly, stubborn, but I ignore it as best I can and head for my closet.
The door creaks as I pull it open, revealing the familiar chaos of hangers, sequins, leather, lace, and work clothes. I grab my duffel bag from the floor and start pulling outfits down with practiced ease, folding them quickly and efficiently. Muscle memory takes over. This part of my life is easy.
I toss in heels, makeup, an extra set of lashes, zip the bag shut, and sling it over my shoulder.
I check the hallway through the peephole before opening my door, habit more than necessity. James's door is still closed.
I step out and lean against the wall, duffel bag at my feet, waiting.
A few minutes pass.
Then I hear it.
The click of his lock and the soft scrape of his door opening.
He steps out, jacket on, keys in hand, eyes flicking to me with an emotion I cannot explain.
"You ready?" he asks.
I nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah."
As we walk down the hallway together, the scent of paint clings faintly to him, close enough now that there's no denying it.
I don't say anything.
But curiosity remains deep in my chest, heavier than before, and this time I don't shake it off.
I just carry it with me, all the way to the car.