Merlot banged on the door.
Lemony opened it, eyes widening.
"How did you find where I live?" he asked.
"I traced your phone call to this house," Merlot said sharply. "Don't call me again."
Lemony frowned. "You came all the way here just to tell me to leave you alone? You could've ignored me like a normal person."
"I came to tell you in person because I don't want you bothering me—"
"Oh, please." Lemony scoffed. "You're the one bothering me. I was in the middle of writing my manuscript before you started pounding on my door like a maniac."
"You have nothing to complain about," Merlot cut in. "You woke me up from a nap. I only answered because I thought my mom was calling." He folded his arms. "Delete my number."
"Why?" A slow, knowing grin spread across Lemony's face. "You could just change yours. Instead, you hopped on your little e-bike and rode across the city to yell at me. That's a lot of effort for someone who claims they're over it." His head tilted. "Almost like you still have feelings."
Merlot let out a slow, controlled breath. "I've moved on, Lemony. You were never interested in me anyway. I just want my peace back."
"Oh, Merlot…" Lemony chuckled softly, then his smile vanished into a chilling blankness. "That voice in your head. It's not creativity. It's the author. You don't have a life. You have a script."
Merlot stared at him, the words sending ice water down his spine.
Lemony stepped back and slammed the door in his face.
Merlot's throat burned with the urge to scream at the wood, to force him to open it back up. But he stopped himself. The last thing he wanted was to give Lemony the satisfaction of seeing him unravel.