Pulling the bottle of vodka out of the bag, she sets it down just outside the front door to his apartment. She soon crouches down and reaches into the pockets of her trench coat, tugging a handwritten note and a scarlet ribbon out before tying the sheet of paper to the glass bottle into a nice bow. After tidying up the bow, she lifts her gaze up to the door and rises, pursing her lips before reaching a hand out and rapping her knuckles against the wood once, twice, three times. Within a few seconds, she’s already out of sight.
Drinks on me. You need it more than I do.
Take care of yourself, Luka.
The note is signed off with a ‘-IX’ in red ink.
He’s always wary when his door is knocked upon and this is no exception. Because he hasn’t invited anyone over and there are only three people in the city who know his address. He doesn’t want to see either of them right now and he practically groans as he gets himself to rise, leave the comfort of his couch behind to drag his feet over hardwood flooring. He stops by the door for a moment, looks himself over in the hallway mirror and wearing a scold as he undoes the lock and pushes the piece of wood and metal open. To his surprise, he’s faced with no one, emptiness and silence lingering outside, well aside from the cling of glass when his door hits the bottle placed outside of it. It has him surprised and he furrows his brows when he crouches to pick it up. At first, he thinks this is some stupid joke, a game one of his friends decided to play and they’re probably still there somewhere, waiting for him to spot them, but when he reads the note attached to the bottle — after undoing the red ribbon— his eyes grow wide. He tenses and he almost drops the bottle to the floor. Fucking…? He looks around, eyes trained on even the smallest of details. This fucks up his mind greatly, because he doesn’t recognize the handwriting, nor what the note is signed with and it’s kinda spooky. Hell, it’s sending chills down his spine. For the past weeks, he’s been feeling as if he’s watched whenever he does something, as if he’s being followed and if anything, this only confirms it.
He tries to stay calm as he backs into his apartment again, shutting the door and locking it tight, double checking before he moves back into the living room. He sets the bottle of vodka down on the coffee table and he studies it. The seal is unbroken and it’s his favorite brand. This person obviously knows him well, better than many and it has his brows furrowing yet again. He doesn’t stay in the room for long, sneaking into his bedroom — because yes, he is a bit scared— to get his gun from the drawer in his bedside table and he puts it beside the bottle. Better to be prepared than to be surprised. He tells himself, once again inspecting his little gift, lips pressing into a thin line. Then he smirks, because he sees no harm in drinking. Because if this person would have meant him harm, wouldn’t they have tried to get him when he opened the door? Maybe this is their way of trying to catch his attention. So he opens the bottle, takes a whiff of the alcohol that lingers within it and he sighs contently as he brings it to his lips, as he takes the first sip, and not a small one. Warmth spreads through his chest and it feels just right. He leans back against the sofa cushions, taking another sip before he puts the bottle down.
” Thank you for the gift, stranger. ”
He hums a bit, even though there’s nobody there to hear him.
” But you won’t be a stranger for much longer. i’ll find you. ”
He hiccups.
” Bet on it. “