I know because I check my phone before I get up—old habit from when I used to deliver food and every second mattered. Now it just feels like I'm stalling.

Another knock. Harder this time. A little impatient.

The movers had already hauled the last box up the stairs twenty minutes ago. I heard the thudding footsteps, the scrape of furniture against hardwood, the low murmur of a voice directing them. Whoever my new roommate is, he’s got a lot of stuff.

I open the door.

He smells like sandalwood and something else. Something sweet, almost cloying, buried under the cologne.