Ailbe’s grip on the small wrapped parcel tightened, the butterflies in his stomach swarming. He paced back and forth in front of the door, unsure whether he should knock on it or chicken out and return back to his apartment. Again.
He raised a hand to knock on the door, only to stop at the last moment. This repeated several times. How hard was it to deliver a box of homemade chocolate tarts? Very, according to Ailbe. How many times does this make now? The midlander asked himself. He already knew the answer to this. Too many.
That’s it. He swallowed the lump in his throat and inhaled a deep breath. He walked up to the door, parcel in hand and rapped the door. The nerves kicked in again, heat creeping up his cheeks. Nope. He gently placed the parcel on the welcome mat and swiveled around, briskly walking out of the property and back to his apartment. Nope, nope, nope. Ailbe shook his head as he walked; he’d faced dragons head-on in combat, no issues there. But giving gifts to people he was fond of? He’d rather take the dragons on again.