Thought I'd write a short story, and if people like it, I'll write more :)
Note: This is not my best writing, at ALL. I just wrote whatever came to my head first. This isn't my genre either, but I thought it would be fun to create a character based off a set.

He walks through my door, shaking rain off like a dog would when thoroughly drenched. "A knock wouldn't hurt," I say, not looking up from the newspaper that is within my hands. I flip the page, getting inky residue on my fingers in the process, but the crinkling noise distracts me from the fact that my best friend's ex-boyfriend has shown up unexpectedly on a stormy Tuesday night. 
"Sorry," he mumbles, but it's obvious that he does not mean it from the way he ambles about my flat as if he owns the place. I set the newspaper down flat against the table and narrow my eyes at him, cutting to the chase.
 "What are you doing here?" I ask, annoyed that he is walking on my carpets with muddied shoes, leaving huge, noticeable footprints in his wake with each step he takes. Taking no notice of my anger, he looks back at me, then walks over to the table I am sitting at with an ease that makes me squirm in my seat. 
"I was just dropping something off for Penel-o-pie," he says, using the fond nickname he gave to my best friend, Penelope, years ago. I shrug, pretending that his mere existence doesn't agitate me even as the anger climbs down my spine like a ladder into Hell. After a moment of empty space in which he glances around, most likely looking at the dirty dishes in the sink that I was supposed to wash or my bras that were hanging out to dry, I clear my throat impatiently. 
"Where should I leave it?" he asks, and I now notice that he is carrying a rather sizable box with "Penelope" written on it in boyish writing. "By the heart you ripped out of her chest," I reply bitterly without a moment's hesitation. Finally, I elicit a reaction from him. "Olive, please, I don't have time for this," he responds in a tone just as bitter as mine. I could almost feel the mutual hatred flowing between us in angry, large sparks. "Yet, you have time to leave her another one of your little presents. What is it this time? A cuddly-wuddly teddy bear? More roses? Oh no, let me guess...a book of poems you wrote, or better yet, a mix tape! I bet Track 4 you composed by yourself." I'm being mean, but there's no stopping me once I'm on a roll. I'm one of those super-protective-I'll-kill-you-if-you-break-my-best-friend's-heart kind of girls. You know the type, the ones that carry insults like these in their back pockets like a teenager girl would her lip gloss. 
With steady hands, he sets the box down in front of me with a light thud, then leans in so our faces are inches apart. "You're just jealous," he says, and I can feel his hot breath on my face. It's enough to make me push my chair back with my feet and stand up. I do have a personal space thing, after all. He stares me down, I stare back. It lasts until I feel as if I should turn around and count to ten, like it was a western show down. Before I can make any move though, I hear a keys being jostled by the door. Penelope, my roommate and best friend, is home.
If you read this, write, "Coco Rocks!" in your comment <3
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