summer
It's really all Elena Gilbert's fault for letting her drink that much Maker's Mark.
Caroline squints at the quiet street in front of her before squaring her shoulders determinedly. This street is most definitely hers, she decides, because she recognizes the tall magnolia tree that hulks over a few of the houses, its shadow long and looming. Now if she can just remember if hers is on the left or the right of the tree—
(She doesn't even particularly like Maker's, Caroline thinks grumpily, and she distinctly remembers shouting this directly into her friend's ear. Yet Elena had waved off her protests like they were nothing more than gnats. "Caroline," she had shouted back over the thumping music, "who gives a shit? They—" Elena had pointed at a group of guys with the same swooping hair and polo shirts of varying pastels, "—are buying. We're getting the good stuff tonight, girl!" Elena had then snorted, muttering something under her breath that had sounded a lot like fucking freshmen.)
So yeah. Too much Maker's, minus the food she didn't eat before going out, plus the line of identical suburban houses with identical doors in the only neighborhood she and Elena had found for their senior year that was close enough to campus without feeling like you were up the university's ass—well. It's no wonder she finds herself in the predicament she's in.
If only the fucking HOA had let her paint their front door turquoise like she'd asked—
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Drunk sleep sucks, but drunk falling asleep is actually quite nice, Caroline decides happily. The world spins just enough to be relaxing, her eyelids feel slightly weighted, and the sheets are soft and cool against her legs.
In a moment of clarity, she reaches towards the nightstand for her phone charger and her hands end up rooting around longer than her staggeringly drunk brain can handle. She gives up, rolling back onto her back and exhaling as the room gently rocks her to sleep.
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"You're drunk," a pleasant, British-accented voice observes from very far away.
She is, but still she bristles. "How d'you know?" she mumbles defensively, not bothering to open her eyes.
"Because," and the voice is closer now, "you live next door."
Caroline's already asleep again.
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She wakes up, really wakes up, and the first thing she notices as she sits up is that this is not her room.
It almost is, but not quite. The differences are small—too small, apparently, for those who are highly intoxicated to notice, but now that she can focus her eyes, they jump out at her immediately.
The layout is the same: the large window across from the bed, the mostly shut door on the opposite wall, the black ceiling fan hanging from the sloping ceiling. But the sunlight from the window falls all wrong on the floor, the fan is spinning at too low a speed, and Caroline never leaves her door open when she's sleeping.
Slowly, carefully, she tiptoes out of the bed. Her shoes and jeans lay on the floor and she feels a brief flare of pure panic—oh god had she gone home with one of those dumb freshmen? But the memory strikes quickly: she had stumbled herself out of both in this exact spot and crawled in to the bed, all very much alone. The tightness in her chest eases and she quickly collects her things, slipping back into her jeans and letting her flats dangle from her fingers.
Feeling less exposed with her pants on, Caroline takes stock of the bedroom that is at once so similar and so different from her own.
The sheets are dark brown, the comforter a plaid of varying shades of blue. (She seriously has no clue how she missed that. Her own are both yellow paisley.) They feel different too, these sheets. They are softer than hers, with a gentle sheen that suggests quality, suggests money; which she most certainly does not have to drop on bedsheets, of all things. She looks around cautiously, her neck stiff and the pounding in her head protesting every movement.
The rest of the furniture is made of heavy, dark wood; it's much too solid to be mistaken for her own flimsy IKEA pieces. The desk shoved unceremoniously into one corner has carved clawed feet, for god's sake, and there is actual artwork on the walls. She's sure a closer look would tell her that it's all original, too, unlike the mass-produced canvases from Target that hung on her own walls.
Caroline cautiously peeks through the blinds, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight that pierces through the slats. The view from the window is incredibly familiar, enough so that she briefly entertains the possibility that she had maybe stumbled drunkenly into an alternate universe last night. But it's just different enough to dissuade that idea: the yard of her annoying frat bro neighbors across the street isn't as centered in this window as it is in her own and the magnolia tree is on the wrong side of the window—
There's a knock at the door just as she's realizing with humiliating, excruciating certainty what's happened. The mistake she had made while stumbling past the line of houses on her street.
"Oh good, you're awake," says the same pleasant, British accented voice from the night before.
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To his credit, Nik from Next Door, as her deeply hungover brain has now dubbed him, looks mostly amused instead of disturbed.
"Oh my god," she moans, rubbing her hands over her face. Maybe if she concentrates hard enough she can teleport herself out of his house and into her own; or if she's really lucky (she never is), time travel back to last night so she can stop herself from taking her fourth shot of Maker's. "I'm an assaulter. I've assaulted someone. I've assaulted you and you're being nice to me!"
"Hardly assault," he reasons rationally, offering her a cup of coffee. She takes it but doesn't drink it, instead setting the mug down (the loopy script on the side reads GO VIRAL with what look to be a tiny, anthropomorphic germs drawn below the words) in front of her on the granite countertop that matches her own. "I spent last night in the guest bedroom—"
"Because I assaulted you!"
"—so unless you've mastered the art of being in two places at once, which seems highly unlikely," he shrugs and flashes her a grin that in literally any other situation she'd find impossibly charming. His hand comes up to rest atop his heart. "I can assure you that my honor remains unimpeached."
She gapes at him. "I basically broke into your house—"
"Ah, we've graduated from assault to B&E."
"—and assaulted you—"
"Spoke too soon," Nik from Next Door sighs, casting his eyes heavenward as though beseeching some higher power for patience.
"—you should call the police!"
"Caroline," he says, leaning forward, his hands clasped together in prayer position. "I am not calling the police, who are likely quite busy with actual crimes, to tell them that my next-door neighbor mistook my house for hers, entered when she found the door unlocked, and fell asleep in what she thought was her own bed."
She groans and drops her head into her hands. "This is easily the most embarrassing thing I've ever done in my entire life," she informs him, the heel of her hands pressing into her brow bone. "Easily," she reiterates, her face flushing.
He sounds physically pained as he says, "I once passed out in my own backyard after too much bourbon, so believe me when I tell you that you have nothing to be embarrassed for. Everyone has a story like this."
Caroline exhales slowly. The feeling of it is bizarrely comforting. "They do not but whatever. Also, you know you should really lock your door," she admonishes sternly from the safety of her tightly shut fingers. "Men have it so easy. You could have been kidnapped."
"That seems like the least of what could have happened," he points out gravely, "considering how I was the victim of both breaking and entering and assault last night."
She sputters with all the dignity of a fish out of water.
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It doesn't occur to Caroline that she never told him her name.
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Nik from Next Door is a doctoral student in the virology department, she learns from the books that sit on the built-in shelving in his living room that mirrors her own; and he's lived in this house for two years. She wrinkles her nose. "How come I've never seen you around before?"
"Unfortunately for me," he drawls, "I spend most of my days either in the lab, the library, or the basement of Shoaker Hall." He runs a hand through his hair, which is, she notices, thick and wavy and that dark shade of blonde that's just this side of being brown.
"But, like, how do you not have a roommate? The rent in this neighborhood is expensive AF." She should know, she and Elena had agonized over the numbers for a solid three weeks before signing their lease.
He laughs at that. "Stipend. The university pays me to teach freshmen biology for non-majors and a few of the graduate level labs in exchange for research and their name on any papers I publish during my time here."
She's pretty sure it has to be more than that. The expensive furniture and sheets, not to mention the fancy coffee he'd brewed, all indicate that he comes from money. But she doesn't say anything, instead nodding sagely. "Kinda like how they pay for my tuition in exchange for back tuck back handsprings on the sidelines of football games."
"Indeed," he agrees good naturedly before her phone beeps from its spot on the coffee table. She sends Nik a slightly apologetic smile before going to retrieve it.
It's a text from Elena, asking if she made it home okay last night, and oh by the way, she had actually gone home with her shitty ex Damon. Also, unrelatedly, did they have copious amounts of Whiteclaw at the house? She has some sorrows to drown.
Caroline scowls down at her screen before tapping out a brief message and hitting send.
"Looks like I'm not the only one who made errors in judgement last night," she gripes to Nik, who had been looking studiously at his feet. At the sound of her voice, he looks up and raises his eyebrows in question. She elaborates, "My roommate. She went home with her ex, who I hate. Who she hates, actually." Caroline shakes her head. "I think a little light B&E is preferable."
And oh fuck, if Elena is only just now on her way home—
"Shit, I gotta go," she exclaims, tucking her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and hunting for her keys. Both of Nik's eyebrows have climbed up his forehead, and it's entirely unfair that he still looks freaking hot—
"I have a dog," she explains hurriedly, spying her keys on his living room table. "And if neither of us made it home last night, he's probably snacking on the blinds and we've already replaced them twice."
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Caroline takes Milo on a long walk, ending up back on campus before she realizes where her feet have taken her. The late August sun's warmth on her face and the contented wag of Milo's tail go a long way as far as hangover cures go. Her headache has almost completely vanished.
That, plus the food truck with the giant pretzels she loves is currently parked on the corner. There's an extra bounce in her step as she leads Milo over to the small line that has formed.
When it's her turn, she buys two and asks for extra cheese (not the beer cheese, she specifies, even though it's normally her favorite; her stomach rolls at the word beer).
She knocks on Nik's door—she really should have noticed last night that his welcome mat is a simple black square, a far cry from her and Elena's colorful monstrosity that cheerfully requests guests to Wipe Your Paws! before entering—and holds out one of the pretzels when he answers.
"Sorry I broke into your house and assaulted you," she says seriously. "Please accept this pretzel as tribute."
That makes him laugh and he steps outside into the sunshine with her.
"Your dog is quite cute," Nik says, squatting down so that he's on eye level with Milo. Milo, the intrepid and wary guard dog that he is, proceeds to thoroughly investigate this stranger by licking his entire face enthusiastically.
(Caroline can't quite blame him.)
"Thanks. He's actually a hellhound, so don't let him fool you."
"Now that sounds like slander. You should sue your mum, my friend," Nik tells Milo solemnly before looking back up at her. "What's his name?"
Caroline studies him through her sunglasses, privately enjoying the way his Henley skims over the very obvious lines of his arm muscles.
"Milo," she answers before she gets caught staring. And for whatever reason, she continues, even though he hadn't asked and it's probably too much information. "He'd been at the shelter the longest of any of the other animals, and the staff said it's because of his E-Y-E."
Nik looks up at her questioningly as she spells out the word eye. She taps her pointer finger to just underneath her own eye, then gestures to Milo, who is missing his right one. "They thought he got attacked before he came to the shelter and I don't want him to get a complex about it." She leans forward to scratch right behind Milo's ears. "He's my perfect best boy, even without it."
What she doesn't tell Nik is that she had gone to the shelter directly from her dad's funeral—hadn't even bothered changing out of her starchy black dress—and specifically informed the director that she wanted to adopt the least adoptable animal they had. Dog, cat, ferret, rabid racoon, I don't care, Caroline had said firmly. The woman had taken one look at her, at her smeared mascara and her hair pulled back in a perfect bun, nodded once in understanding, and led her straight to Milo.
"Well," Nik says, standing up and subsequently pulling her out of her memories, "he is a very good boy."
"It's true," she agrees whole-heartedly, leaning against the column next to the three steps that lead directly to his front porch. Milo's tail wags as his head swivels from Nik to Caroline and back again.
"I feel like it's not enough," Caroline says, waving the brown bag that had once held their now devoured pretzels. "I mean, if I found some rando dude in my bed, I'd be way less chill about it than you."
Nik shifts his weight from foot to foot before shrugging. "As you said, we men have it easy."
"Okay but like, still. Let me make it up to you. Please. It'll make me feel better—well," she corrects, "kind of better. Maybe like, dinner or something?" She pauses, then adds, "Just not like, anywhere super nice. I just get my tuition paid here, unlike some fancy-pants virus hackers." She grins. "I'm on a budget."
He looks a little apprehensive, which she doesn't get, but then his face clears.
"Name the date," he says.
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Nik chooses Fat Tuesday's, and Caroline is impressed with how well he's walked the line she gave him. It's an upscale enough place to weed out the Tinder hookups, but not so nice that she'll overdraft the tiny balance on her debit card.
Plus, the food is like, really good.
"So why did you decide to study viruses, of all things?" she asks over her red beans and rice. Nik pauses before clearing his throat and taking a sip of the red he'd ordered.
"Saw Outbreak much too early in life," he tells her, his face and tone serious before one side of his mouth ticks upward in a smile. "Made quite the impact on a young and impressionable soul."
"Yeah, I'll bet," she quips with a laugh.
"What about yourself?" It doesn't escape her how he steers the conversation away from himself, but she decides she'll ignore it for now. "What made you decide on your career choice as an admittedly bad burglar?"
Caroline snorts at that. "For your information, I am a history major," she says with a hint of deliberate snootiness. "And…I guess I saw Indiana Jones too early in life." She shrugs, suddenly becoming very interested in her food. "And my dad used to listen to like—books on tape about the Civil War on road trips and it was like…having a story read to you, you know?" She sneaks a look at him; his eyes are on her and they are so soft. Her insides feel warm.
It's so not first date material (and she isn't sure when she decided this was a date, but once her brain decides to call it that, she's all aboard) but she tells him anyway. "He died two years ago."
She wouldn't have thought it possible, but somehow his expression gentles further. "I am so sorry for your loss," he says quietly, his hand reaching over the table to settle over her own.
"Thanks," and she blinks to find that her eyes have started tearing. She pulls her hand away to dab at them with her napkin. "Well, shit," she says with a watery chuckle, "That's a new one for me." He tilts his head, an eyebrow raising, and she suddenly feels very shy as she clarifies. "Never cried on a date before."
Nik goes very still, and for one dizzying, terrifying moment she panics that she's misread this entire situation. Oh god, he's just super nice and I mistook it all for flirting, what is actually, seriously wrong with me?
"Ah," he says softly. "So this is a date then?"
She swallows hard. In for a penny, and all that.
"I wouldn't be opposed," she answers, just as softly.
When she finally looks up at him, his smile is like the sun.
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tbc