I slowly turn the corner, leaning against the walls of the complex. After a tiring few hours working with my editor, I'm ready to take a long nap before work. Progress was made, but at the steep price of all my energy. I reached for my keys as my foot hit a box in front of the door.

"What the fuck?" I mumbled.

I bent down and grabbed opposite corners of the rather large box. I gently shook it, barely hearing any rattle. Balancing it on my knee, I opened my door and hobbled inside.

I kicked the door closed and placed the mystery box on the coffee table. Michael raced over to sniff it.

"Down, boy. It's not food."

Michael snarled and waddled back into the kitchen. I followed him after undressing as moved into the room. He patiently waited by his food bowl, tapping it with his nose suggestively.

I rolled my eyes and filled his bowls with kibble and water.

Lucifer brushed against my shin, trying to get my attention. He walked to his bowls, flicking his tail around them.

After getting him settled, I grabbed the box cutter from the junk drawer and went back to the strange box in the living room. The box was about a foot wide, a foot tall, and a foot and a half in length, covered in brown parchment, neatly taped with my name and address in black marker.

I cut across the top, where I felt a seam. I ripped the remainder of the parchment off, which left me with a plain box with the name Manfred's printed on the side facing me. I pulled apart the top flaps and a sea of packing peanuts met my eyes.

I groaned frustratingly, picked up the box, and carried it to my room where curious mouths won't accidentally chew stray peanuts. Closing the door behind me, I lifted the box onto my bed and dug through all the protective packaging.

My hand hits smooth, circular pieces of compact glass and I reach around to find the edge. When I successfully grabbed the sides, I salvaged it from the seemingly bottomless box of blue. Arising from the mess was a beautiful, antique piece of writer's history.

A typewriter.

Not just any old typewriter. Well, it's pretty old, but besides the point.

It was a beautifully glossed and polished 1940's Smith-Corona Sterling typewriter. The glass key tops shined in my overhead light and the black body was a cool matte black finish. Attached to the page bracket was a ribbon threaded through a square piece of paper.

In an elegant script, the note read:

Dear Mylo,

I hope this typewriter will inspire you to continue to write many more books.

Yours Truly,
S.A.

I read the one inked sentence, over and over. The S.A. wrote with more care and fanfare than the rest of the letters. The paper smelled faintly of the sea, the salty mist of the air. I tapped it thoughtfully against my nose and placed it back in the brackets. Lifting the typewriter again, I placed it on my mostly empty oak desk. I ran my fingers lightly on the keys as the cool glass brushed against them.

Arlo was thoughtful but trying to pay me off. If it were any other item, I'd immediately pack it up and give it back. But this must have taken ages to locate, have polished, and repainted this gorgeous color. I'll keep it not to be rude but he needs a wake-up call.

I turned around to rejoin my terrible two, only to face a terrible peanut spill that spread everywhere.

"Should have put a vacuum in, for very near future purposes."

~=~+~=~

"Mr. Quincy."

Quincy looked up from a pile of paperwork at the sound of my approach. He pulled off his glasses and nodded.

"Mylo. I've got some finance sheets for you while you work," he grunted.

I nodded and took them from his outstretched hand. I punched in and went to relieve my co-worker.

"Seems you've got a note back there," he said as he exited the store.

I frowned and went behind the counter. Checking in the space underneath, my fingers landed on a smooth and stiff piece of paper. I recovered an off-white sheet of stationery with a purple lining.

"'Looks like you'll be bored for a few days whilst I ship off to Ireland. Don't miss me too much, Arlo.' Hmm."

The bastard's not even here to yell at. There might not even be a reason to go to Ireland. Guess I'm stuck till he's back, however many days that is. I already feel the nagging urge to...miss him. These shifts are quiet and still without a constantly rude and talkative gangster sitting with me through most of the night.

I sighed, plucking Carrie from my bag and continuing where I stopped.

I wonder if this is how Alfred feels without Batman.

Around 5 in the morning, Quincy closed up his office and walked to the counter with a plastic bag in hand. He waddled and huffed as he set it down.

"Mulloy told me to give this to you before I leave," he relayed.

I frowned at the bag. "Okay?"

He nodded. "Good day, Mylo."

"Have a good day, sir!" I called out.

The plastic bag was cold to the touch. It could be from refrigerator cooling or the insane amount of air conditioning Quincy has in his room. The man's a freaking ginger polar bear, I swear. I slowly peeled away the bag to uncover a Styrofoam takeout box and another note similar to the one with the typewriter.

Good morning, Mylo,

After much begging, I got Quincy to buy you breakfast shortly before you arrived. Inside is a breakfast sandwich and some apple slices with peanut butter and caramel dip, separately of course.

Have a nice day after you escape this hellhole.

Yours truly,
S.A.

As promised, there were two triangle halves of a breakfast sandwich, about 8 apple slices, and two sauce containers of peanut butter and caramel. I promptly open the caramel and dip a crisp apple slice and savor the mingling flavors. Quincy probably slipped the identity of my secret admirer out of laziness on his part, too tired to care about the novelty of secrecy.

I reread the note while biting into a sandwich half as I analyze Arlo's handwriting. I stare at his handwriting every once in a while during the week and it's never looked like this. I wouldn't put it above him to hire someone else to write the notes since I know how he writes.

This was a nice surprise, though. I have to thank him when he comes back. This was a well-researched attempt to get into my bed. Too bad he's, one, in Ireland to even reap what he sowed, and two, never going to get close to that point.

I tossed the note into my bag and continued to enjoy the delicious, though almost room temperature, breakfast he provided as the last hour passes without disturbance.

~=~+~=~

"It's too freaking early..."

I groaned into my pillow as the buzzer went off again. I scratched the top of my head, sitting up and slowly shuffling to the buttons by the front door.

"Yes?" I mumbled into the microphone.

"Package for Mylo Ainsley," came the response.

I grumbled as I pressed the button to open the door. Package 4 of God knows how many more. It was cute the first time, surprising the second as I accepted the pricey looking gold pocket watch, a little ticked off by the fountain pen set last time, now it's gone too far as the delivery man reached my door at 11 a.m. I'm going to strangle Arlo, damned be his army of men.

"Sign here," the delivery man said to me for the 100th time it seems.

The package was seated on that cart thingy, so it was probably heavy. I grabbed the little computer pad and sleepily scribbled my signature on the screen before handing it back. The man bent down, gripped the sides of the box, quickly standing up straight and passed it to me.

"Have a good day, sir."

I made a half attempt at a nod and closed the door with a combination of elbows and shoulder blades. Trekking into the living room, I carefully settled the box onto the coffee table. Too exhausted to be handling sharp objects, I decided to lay down on the couch and pass out.

Wet kisses woke me from my sleep. Michael huffed and licked my cheek once more.

"Afternoon, Mikey," I greeted with a head rub.

He yipped and went into the kitchen. With a butt scratch, I followed and reached to refill both of their water bowls. I filled and prepped my coffee maker to filter hazelnut blend into the pot. While the dark liquid gradually dripped, I pulled out my pair of scissors and returned the mystery box on the coffee table.

As I sat down, just sticking the blade into the packing tape on the seam, a knock sounds on the door. Exasperated with the door, I stomped to open it for the second visitor.

With the smirk of the century, Arlo was leaning casually against the frame. Dressed once again in his everyday clothes, sans the pea coat, which was replaced with a light, dark blue blazer.

"Morning, Blondie," he addressed with finesse.

I rolled my eyes. "4 days was too little."

He grinned. "Admit it, you missed me."

"I missed you as much as I miss Philadelphia," I returned.

He pouted. "This relationship is very one-sided, Blondie."

I leaned back, giggling. "Relationship? Keep dreaming, Arlo."

He smiled and pushed past me into the apartment. "I think I've perfected my seduction skills."

I sighed and pushed the door closed, trailing behind him into the living room.

Arlo gestured to the unopened gift. "What's that?"

I scoffed. "Don't play dumb, Quincy blew your cover. That's one of your many gifts, Mr. S.A."

"Not even surprised, but what is that?"

I frowned deeply. "Your gift? It's the 4th, which woke me up way too early."

Arlo looked up at me in terror. "Mylo, were you expecting a package other than my gifts?"

I shook my head. He pointed at my shoes while using the other hand to dial his phone. "Put them on, now."

"What, why?" I demanded as I did as told.

Arlo corralled me towards the door as I was quick to grab my keys and jacket.

"Because I never sent you a 4th gift."