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The cricket

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Arthur is unlocking his front door when he hears the scream. High-pitched. Terrified.

He drops his bags, grabs his Glock and runs for the stairs. The sound came from the floor above. He exits the stairwell and listens. Nothing. But there it is again. A shriek. He turns in the direction of the sound, which seems to be coming from the apartment directly above his own.

He stops to listen at the door. All is quiet again.

“Are you okay in there?” he calls.

“Um …” comes a voice. Deep, male, British-accented. “Think so.”

“May I come in to check?” calls Arthur.

Suddenly, a cricket chirps. Loudly.

“Oh my god, there it goes again,” says the British voice as Arthur enters the apartment, “What the bloody hell?”

Standing on a chair in the living room is a well-muscled, tattooed, gorgeous man.

“Hi,” says Arthur, “it’s a cricket.”

“Oh,” says the gorgeous man, “you may be over-armed then.”

He steps off the chair.

“Hello,” he says, sticking out his hand, blushing, “I'm Eames.”

“Arthur,” says Arthur, holstering the Glock.