Why Does this Day Just Keep Happening?
Lola – 4:00 PM
Lola jogged up the stairs to her apartment, backpack bouncing, keys clutched in one hand, brain spiraling in a dozen directions. Coffee, rent, Russians, oh—and the man I may or may not have accidentally kidnapped.
She passed Baba Yaga’s door like always—
Only to freeze when it cracked open and that gravel-honey voice called out:
“Well, well, well. Look who’s dragging her sorry little ass home.”
Shit.
She turned. “Hi, Baba Yaga.”
The woman stepped into the hall wearing a World’s Okayest Grandma hoodie, pink furry slippers, sipping from a mug that read Probably Whiskey. Her curls were a battlefield of bobby pins, and her eyes gleamed like she’d been waiting to pounce.
“I brought you some tea this morning,” Baba said sweetly. “Used my spare key. Like a good neighbor.”
Lola’s stomach dropped. “You… went in my apartment?”
“Oh, don’t get twitchy. I saw what you left tied to your bed.” A sip. A smirk. “And let me tell you, baby girl… finally.”
Lola choked. “It’s not what it looks like!”
“What did it look like, then? Because to me, it looked like a six-foot-something god with murder in his eyes, hogtied in lavender rope.”
“I didn’t mean to kidnap him! I don’t know what’s going on!”
Yaga snorted so hard tea nearly sloshed out of her mug. “Best sentence I’ve heard all week.”
“He’s fine. Alive. Probably furious.”
“He asked me to untie him. Very polite. I told him no.” She sipped again. “Not my circus. Not my bed-bound beefcake.”
Lola covered her face.
Baba's tone softened. “Hey. You okay, bug?”
A shrug. A nod. Another shrug.
“He’s dangerous,” Yaga said. “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 you were a puzzle.”
“That’s… accurate.”
Yaga kissed her temple. “If he’s a gift, keep him. If he’s a trap, break his damn legs. I left him lemon bars and a juice box. Stew later.”
The door shut, leaving Lola frozen on the stairs.
Deep breath. You’ve handled worse. …Never handled this.
The second she opened her door, the scent hit—citrus and heat, chaos clinging to the walls. The smell of whoops, I kidnapped a man who could break me in half.
She pressed her forehead to the wood. You could’ve untied him before you left, idiot. But no—you left him hogtied like a Dollar Store dominatrix with commitment issues.
“You’re back,” came a low, pissed-off voice.
She jumped. “Jesus—do you have to talk like a Bond villain?”
In the bedroom, he was still there. Tied. Glaring. Silent.
Just watching.
And somehow that was worse.
“You gonna say something or just glare until my soul combusts?” she asked.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Work.”
“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.
Unfair. Fury shouldn’t come with cheekbones.
She turned toward her desk. “Baba Yaga said you were rude.”
“She fed me eggs and interrogated me like I was marrying her daughter.”
“Yeah, she does that.”
“And then she left. Without untying me.”
“Glad she didn’t. You’re still a potential murderer.”
“You think I’m on a murder vacation?”
“You could be. Or a hitman. Or a cult guy with great skincare genes.”
“I’m not part of a cult.”
“That’s what a cult guy would say.”
He tugged the ropes, muscles flexing under skin. “What’ll it take for you to untie me?”
“Time. Maybe a background check.”
“You could at least look at me when you insult me.”
She turned slowly. Mistake. He was smirking.
Her eyes dropped—jaw, shoulders, the ropes digging into him like they were daring her to loosen them.
He saw it.
She saw him see it.
“I wasn’t staring,” she blurted.
“You were.”
“I was checking knots.”
His laugh was low, dangerous. “You really are something else.”
She edged closer. “If I untie you, are you going to kill me?”
His gaze dragged over her. “Depends. Are you going to drug me again?”
She pointed. “I didn’t! Gino drugged me! Handed me a drink, and I woke up here with you.”
A flicker across his face.
“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.”
She stomped to the kitchen. His voice stopped her.
“Lola.”
Her chest jumped. God, how does he say my name like that?
“What?”
“Thank you.”
She blinked. “For what?”
“For the pillow.”
“…Don’t mention it.”
She returned with the only edible thing in her fridge—Key Lime pie yogurt.
“You must be starving.”
“Yes.”
She fed him a spoonful. He chewed like it offended him.
“So. Gino.”
She blinked. “What about him?”
“You said this was his fault.”
“Yeah. He’s a client. Regular. Talks too much, but harmless. Or I thought.”
“You thought?”
She sighed. “He convinced me to go to Burning Man. Said I needed to blow off steam. Dumb, not dangerous.”
“You close?”
“Not really. Work-friends. Festival acquaintances with matching glowsticks.”
“You trust him?”
“I didn’t say that.” Another spoonful. “But he’s never shady. Not until now.”
Enzo’s jaw ticked. “He didn’t mention me?”
“Should he have?”
“He’s my cousin. Works for me.”
“…Yeah, got that now.”
“He never said my name?”
“He said something about working for his cousin, but I assumed coffee runs. Or maybe OnlyFans management.”
Enzo huffed a dry laugh. “Gino doesn’t manage anything.”
“Clearly.”
He studied her face like he was trying to peel it open. She wasn’t bluffing.
She tossed the yogurt cup away. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”
“It tastes like punishment.”
“It tastes like citrus joy.”
“It tastes like a key lime with no dignity.”
She smiled. He didn’t. But he looked less murderous.
Silence stretched, tension humming.
“Lola,” Enzo said, voice low.
Her heart jumped. “Yeah?”
He cleared his throat, jerking his chin toward his tied hands.
“We’ve danced around this long enough. I have to pee.”
