Harper steps out into the hallway. Shutting the door behind me, I approach him. He leans awkwardly against the wall. In the light of the hall, it’s easier to see Harper’s flush. I’d rather have this conversation while he’s completely sober, but I’m not letting him ruin my Friday night anymore.

“I asked you twice to keep your parties down, and yet, here I am, being woken up by one again,” I scold him, clenching my cane until my knuckles ache. Harper’s gaze meets mine. If he has something to say, he keeps it to himself.

“I thought you were doing better with the music, especially since you assured me earlier that you’d keep it down. But it seems I was wrong to give you the benefit of the doubt, so let me explain something to you even more clearly since you don’t seem to understand. This is a communal space, and that means there’s some basic apartment etiquette that we all must abide by. For starters, if you’re going to have a party, make sure you’re thinking about who you may bother by doing so. Keep the music down. Keep the racket down.”

Harper’s face reddens in what I presume to be embarrassment.

“Unlike you, I don’t choose my days off. If my weekend is ruined, then I have to suffer through a week of work and hope you don’t ruin it again. And if you really want to be friendly, respecting my request and ensuring you aren't a hindrance to the lives of others is by far the best way to be friendly.”

Another loud blast of music erupts from the apartment, and a stabbing pain shoots across my temple. Groaning, I lean away from Harper, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head’s throbbing for a plethora of reasons; I’m tired, the end of a wonderful dream, the loud music, and now this.

“I shouldn’t have to be here telling you this.” I add. “Aren’t you old enough to know better, or are you a child trapped in an adult's body?”

Harper gapes.

“Or is this possibly an—” I hold up a hand to make quotation marks in the air. “Influencer thing? The moment you start to get some followers you forget the world doesn’t revolve around you? Everyone must adore you so you can do no wrong.”

That must have been the wrong thing to say because Harper straightens up. He stands tall in front of me, still red-faced and frowning.

“Regardless of what’s happening, you don’t have the right to talk to me or belittle what I do like that,” he declares, hands forming fists at his side. “Tonight was an accident and, yes, it’s my bad, but I turned down the music, like you requested.”

“But it’s not just the music, there was crazy banging. Were you holding a wrestling competition or something?”

“Then it must have been earlier, when someone stumbled into the wall and broke one of my hanging pictures. It was pretty loud,” Harper interrupts, holding his head high like he has somehow made up for what’s happening. “Accidents happen. It could have happened when I was home alone. Would you still storm over to yell at me like I am an idiot, if that were the case?”

“No, but that isn’t what happened. There was a loud noise and even louder laughter even after I asked you to keep things down and you promised you would. If you aren’t capable of controlling your so-called friends, then don’t invite them over. Better yet, have a party somewhere else, not in a residential area.”

“It was an accident!” Harper huffs, red with frustration. “I’m sorry for waking you up, but still, don’t talk down to me like I’m a child.”

Shrugging, I reply, “It’s not talking down to you to state facts.”

Harper bristles, left speechless for a long moment before he sighs. “Whatever. We won’t bother you again, Mr. Brent.”

“Dr. Brent.”

Harper gapes. “Are… you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

He scoffs. “And you call me childish.”

I shrug as Harper turns away, then stumbles around me toward his apartment. His foot catches on the end of my cane, and before I can react to steady him, he plummets to the floor.

Harper yelps when he hits the ground, then rolls onto his back while clutching his right wrist, wincing.

“Are you alright?” I ask. A dumb question considering the expression of pain on his face.

Harper’s squinted eyes open, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. He nods. That’s an obvious lie.

Sitting up, he cradles his wrist over his chest and says, “I’m fine. My wrist just hurts a little.”

That face says it hurts a lot. I’m already running a list of possible injuries. The way he landed, it’s likely a bad sprain in need of a splint for at least two weeks.

“Let me look at that,” I say, holding out my hand to help him to his feet. Harper glances up at me, somewhere between surprised, pained, and still annoyed. In the end, he doesn’t accept.

Rising to his feet, Harper repeats, “I’m fine.”

“Hey, I’m really sorry about tripping you.”

“You didn’t trip me,” he says, shrugging. “I should have watched where I was going. It was an accident.”

Accident or not, I’m still sorry about it.

“Go to the doctor’s tomorrow to get that checked. You may need a splint,” I tell Harper as he heads for his door.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he argues, which unleashes the physical therapist in me.

“Thinking it’s not bad doesn’t mean it isn’t. You have no idea how much stress you just put on your wrist,” I lecture, pointing accusingly at him. “If you don’t go, at least make sure to ice your wrist to reduce the pain and swelling. You should do it for twenty to thirty minutes every three to four hours until the pain is gone. Compress your wrist with a bandage. Elevate it above your heart as often as you can, and try to use it as little as possible for the next forty-eight hours. Got it?”

Harper blinks rapidly. The color in his cheeks darkens. I hate thinking about how the saying is true; blondes look good in red.

“O-Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll make sure to do that. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Harper slips inside and I head home. Nothing wakes me for the rest of the weekend.