Your new apartment.

New York didn't exactly smell like fresh pie, but as you step up to your apartment building, you can't help but smell anything other than freedom.

The trip had taken quite a while. While your parents were kind enough to pay for three months rent, they evened out that kindness by buying train tickets. Not that you were complaining, they were doing a lot of good for you without you ever having asked. They knew that you had no job and every dollar Joe had he had earned, and it wasn't exactly like he had given you any on your way out the door.

You sighed, stepping up to the buzzer. I shouldn't be so callous, you chided yourself. You and Joe were trying to make it work. You shouldn't be talking shit about him like that.

"Hello?" Came a husky voice from the other side of the buzzer. "Who is this?"

"Oh, um..." You began, stumbling over your words. "It's, uh..."

"Out with it." The voice demanded on the other end. "I haven't got all day."

Rude. You thought to yourself. "My name is Laura Jade, I'm supposed to be moving in today." You reached into your purse, pulling out the paper you had hastily written your new housing information on. "Are you Aiden Sheer? The lan--"

Before you could finish your sentence, the buzzer let off a sound that nearly knocked you off the stoop. You didn't realize just how loud the thing was. Your opinion of your new landlord being quite rude hadn't exactly changed with the sudden opening of the door without a word of warning.

Pulling it open, you entered the mostly-baige looking lobby to the building. It was small and cramped, but that didn't bother you. Looking around, you noticed a man standing beside the stairwell on a ladder, seemingly fixing a flickering lighting fixture. "Room's number 223, third floor, end of the hall." The man said, without even looking toward you.

You were surprised. The voice was the same as the one who had huskily reprimanded you outside. He'd sounded like a much older man, but... here, he was quite the opposite. He was tall, likely approaching 6'5, and while he was wearing ratty sweatpants and a beaten-up grey tank top, you could tell he was cut.

Part of you wanted to get as far away from him as possible, and get upstairs. The other part of you wanted to find an excuse to get just a little closer.