to love or lust [mike schmidt AU]

iii.

iii.

[argument]

              i try to hide it in my face
                                  and it don't work
                                              you see through

you right — doja cat ft. the weeknd

| "I'll fuck you up." |

MIKE.

Around midnight the following weekend, Pauly, Matt, and Chris come over to my apartment for another kickback. I open my door, greeting them, and there's an air of excitement that accompanies them.

My boring work week and futile attempts to start a conversation with my neighbor has sucked me dry. It's because of these idiots, my smirking friends, that I had to suffer through a week's worth of glares, snide remarks, and middle fingers that can last me a lifetime. And the guys purposely stall outside my door to steal a glance at Sol—the girl whose attitude has shoved me closer and closer to the brink of insanity. Through our group chat, I have consistently complained that I would rather leave this girl alone, but they insist I continue with this charade. They tell me that I am one interaction closer before she decides that I'm fuckable. But I think I am one futile interaction away from getting a slap to the face.

And, when they stand before my door, there's a scowl on my face. All they do is laugh at me. They wait a second or two, purposely making as much noise as they can to make the girl come out of her apartment, but it's midnight, and she's not home.

"She's at work," I grumble, "get the fuck inside."

"Damn," snickers Pauly as he walks in, "nice to see you, too, Mike."

He daps me up, to which I had reluctantly returned at first. I want to be upset with them, but I have freewill to do what the hell I want. In truth, my ego is at fault for continuing with this little bet.

Chris is next to greet me, saying, "I was expecting to see some bad bitch strippers in your apartment today."

I scoff.

Matt walks in and pats my back in that manner he always does. "We need an update," he says, throwing a glance at Sol's doors, as if she'd walk right out at any second. "There ain't no way you still haven't managed to get through to her."

If only he knew just how hard I have been trying. It's the bitch next door that just won't budge. A part of me, too, likes to piss her off by trying to start a conversation, just so she feels an ounce of my fury. The second we cross paths, leaving our apartments at the same time, I say my hello's—it's a very condescending, "Hey neighbor." The first two times, she rolled her eyes at me and scoffed. One morning, though, she saw my smirk, and my last few greetings were met with middle fingers and a very cold, "Fuck off." And to spite me last night, Sol raised the volume of her music to a level that had me grinding my teeth and covering my ears with my pillows. It wasn't until I left for work around six in the morning did the music stop completely. I nearly ran to her door and pounded my fist against it to demand she come out and apologize to me for ruining my sleep. I went as far as texting the landlord this morning, but, of course, my message was left on delivered.