"You do this often?" she whispered.
Abella stepped inside, grabbed her keys off the counter, and spun around. "I owe you. Big time. How about dinner? My treat. I make a mean ramen—the non-lonely, non-cold kind."
He nodded slowly, then stood up. "I have a toolkit. And a terrible habit of lockpicking as a stress reliever during college. No promises, but…"
Twenty minutes later, they were both kneeling in front of her apartment door. Marcus had a tension wrench and a rake pick from his "emergency kit" (which he kept in a mint tin). Abella held her breath as he worked the lock, the tiny clicks echoing like a heartbeat.
Marcus pushed the door open with a flourish. "After you, Danger."
Marcus pocketed his phone. "I’ve been there. You need a locksmith?"