Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn’t unusual for the building of your apartment to be calm and silent in the early hours of the morning, especially on the weekends.

Most tenants seemingly liked to sleep in you supposed, or at least respected the unspoken community agreement to not be an asshole and vacuum or use the blender at 6am - one of the reasons why you stayed so long here.

But something caught your ear this particular morning as you shuffled around your kitchen eyes half-opened preparing your coffee. As you popped a pod in the brewing machine, unfamiliar noises echoed through your front door from the hallway outside, drawing your attention away from what was normally a very focused and sacred task. Though you didn’t try to be nosy, you couldn’t help but creep towards the peephole to get a glimpse of what the ruckus was first thing on a Saturday. After all, if you're making that much noise this early, it was only fair that you had some observers.

The silence breakers appeared to be movers. As your coffee machine whirred in the background, you watched as two broad men carried boxes stacked nearly to their chins, passing to the apartment just besides yours with practised efficiency, moving in tandem together like practiced soldiers. Behind them, a taller figure emerged into your view, gesturing to direct the boxes into the front entrance of the apartment before going to collect more.

Although you could only see part of him from the view in the peephole but you couldn’t help but drink in every visible detail you were allowed.

Broad, muscular shoulders stretched the fabric of a black henley, hair cropped short and slightly tousled as if he’d run his hand through it too many times. He stood with his feet planted firmly apart, weight balanced, arms folded across his chest. Even through a peephole, there was something completely commanding about his presence, your eyes lingering on him. You hadn't recognized him, hadn't seen him do any tours of the apartment or speak to the superintendent in the lobby at all before. Just seemingly coming out of thin air. You watched for a few more moments as the men continued to relay boxes in the apartment, the tall dark man murmuring some directions as he observed. Though you could’ve stayed there all morning, a pang of shame finally curled through your chest and you pulled away. He hadn’t even moved in yet, and you’re already ogling him. Even though he obviously couldn’t see you, it felt invasive to stare, especially considering you would likely be seeing him fairly often from now on.

As you headed back to the kitchen and sipped your slightly cold coffee at your small breakfast nook, your mind wandered back to him. New neighbours were rare here. The last tenant in that unit was a quiet nurse who worked nights, hardly seen, hardly heard. The perfect neighbour. It was a fairly expensive apartment, though you wanted to splurge on the safety, especially living alone. It had plenty of security cameras, always well-lit, hell it even had doors that auto-locked behind you in case you forgot to lock the front door.

Leaning back in your chair, you imagined what his name was, who he was, what he did for work: maybe a travelling consultant, maybe an early retiree. He looked older than you by around a decade, probably late thirties, maybe even early forties with the flashes of silver that mingled with his dark hair. Maybe some kind of manager or executive - that would explain his overall demeanor and intensity. Was he single? Did he have kids? Pets?

You almost laughed at yourself for spending so much time and effort fantasizing about basic details that would most likely come up in an introduction. Though it was definitely more fun to let your imagination run wild.

The next time you saw him was later that afternoon. You came home from getting groceries later in the day with full arms, cursing yourself for getting so many things not on your list, filling the bags to the brim and then some. But you couldn't help it, with the arrival of autumn came new seasonal goodies at the local markets, and you couldn't help but try... well... just about everything. You had managed to make it up the elevator without dropping anything, but as you reached your door, a deep voice spoke behind you.

“Need a hand with those?”

The sudden noise startled you, completely dropping one of the canvas bags to the carpeted floor of the hallway as your breath caught in your chest. Too many damn True Crime documentaries and podcasts made you too fucking skittish.

"God, I am so sorry." You apologized for nearly dropping the heavy bag on his foot, trying to shuffle the bags in your arms to try to pick up the fallen one while also trying not to drop your purse.

A small smile crept on his face as he effortlessly lifted the bag off the floor, though he didn’t immediately hand it to you, clearly seeing that you were beyond the weight limit for how much you could carry, silently offering to carry it for you. Huh, guess he's a gentleman.

Up close, he was taller and even broader, with eyes a deep steel-blue that seemed both guarded and quietly amused.

“Thank you,” you managed, your cheeks warming as you pulled the keys out of your purse with your now spare hand. “I always think I can carry more than I actually can.”

He gave a small huff of laughter, though not malicious. “Happens to the best of us.”

There was an awkward pause before he gestured to his door as you turned the key in the lock.

“I’m John,” he said simply. “Just moved in beside you.” You introduced yourself, lightly nudging the door open with your foot instead of risking dropping another bag. He didn’t offer his last name, nor did he ask for yours. Instead, he slowly followed you to the front of the door, careful not to actually enter until you nodded him in.

Yeah it was incredibly stupid of you to invite this stranger into your apartment. However, you had the best security system in the world - an incredibly nosy retiree across the hall. Ruth was mostly kind, though you knew for a fact that she kept her eye glued to the peephole all day and evening, especially when there was commotion. No doubt she would nudge you about inviting such a handsome man into the apartment, but you hoped that as long as the front door remained open, she would keep from telling half the building you two were already shacking up.

He paused for a moment before following you in and placing the bag on your kitchen counter. For a man so physically imposing, his movements were careful, quiet. Deliberate.

“Thank you,” you said again as you exhaled, blowing loose strands of hair out of your face before offering him a smile. “Not everyone would help a stranger with groceries.”

His lips twitched at that. “Not everyone’s worth helping.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he turned to leave, nodding once evenly. “Have a good evening.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the stillness of your quiet apartment, your heart thudding with an inexplicable awareness. You couldn’t tell if he left out of politeness or he truly wanted nothing else to do with you, simply helping because he was new, and didn’t want to start his first day on poor terms. Well at least you knew his name.

John.

Strong. Simple. It suited him. Though you still didn’t know that much about him, he was clearly a calm and patient presence. Even if he wasn’t exactly friendly and warm, you were definitely looking forward to running into him again. Hell, even if he helped you with your groceries here and there, that was certainly more helpful than Ruth ever was.

That night, as you lay in bed, eyes just starting to finally close for good, you heard faint music drifting through the shared wall.

Deep blues guitar, low and melancholy, like a distant memory. The music rolled through the plaster, faint but clear enough to catch the tiny nuances of the record playing.

You closed your eyes and let it lull you to sleep, unaware that your life was about to change, one quiet morning at a time.

.

Chapter Text

Days and then eventually a few weeks slowly passed in a quiet, rhythmic ease, melding your new routine into something different entirely.

At first, he was just a presence you noticed in small, fleeting moments. Most mornings, you’d hear his door close softly precisely at 7am, footsteps heavy but deliberate as he left before most other residents. You wondered if any had actually even noticed that there was a new resident entirely. Some days he’d return by noon, others not until late at night, and at first the muffled sound of his keys unlocking the door and creaking door being the only signs he was home. But then as he seemed to grow more comfortable in the building, you noticed a few more of his habits start to seep through your shared walls.

After around two weeks of living in the building, John started played soft blues music every evening until around 9pm, something you’d grown to appreciate, and even look forward to. It wasn’t loud enough to be intrusive or bother you while you did your own evening routines. Instead, it wrapped around the edges of your silence like something gentle and grounding. Each chord seemed to hum faintly through the plaster, rattling the small framed photo on your shelf ever so slightly with each deep bass note. You hummed along as you cooked dinner, tapping your foot as you loaded the dishwasher and many nights it soothed you to a restful slumber, carrying through your pillow like a lullaby

You learned the shape of his routine before you even exchanged more than polite greetings and before you knew it, you were starting to look out for when he came home. Kept an ear out for the sound of his boots being gently kicked against the mat, the light sounds of cooking within an hour of his return home in the evenings, and that sweet, soothing music. But your observations weren't out of anxiety or attachment, but instead somehow it comforted you when you knew he was home. Living alone definitely had its perks that you savoured more than ever with every passing year - but you sometimes got lonely. Maybe even got a little worried about sleeping by yourself in the apartment. Despite the place being secure, you still froze when you heard creaking or other odd noises in the last hours of the night. Something about having him next door, right there, made you feel a little bit safer. That's the reason why you kept an eye out for him of course.

You also started to slowly learn other parts of his routine.

On every weekday evening except for Wednesdays it seemed, he carried a navy gym bag slung over his shoulder, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt as he walked down the hall from returning from whatever workout he did. You sometimes passed him in the hall when you came home from work or back from running an errand at the same time, and had to keep yourself from staring at how his damp hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, how snugly his shirt clung to his frame. The man was undeniably handsome, and though you were sure you weren't the only woman who was intrigued by him, you were still his neighbour.

When you did cross paths, it was in the small liminal spaces of apartment life. And in this case, it was exceptionally early on a Saturday morning, but you were already on your way out of the door. One of your closest friends needed a ride from the airport and of course, you couldn’t say no when she asked you. Your eyes were barely open as you moved around your apartment, humming to yourself as you got dressed, preparing a cup to bring with you on the drive. Though you had desperately wanted to sleep in a few more hours, there was no way you'd let her pay the quadruple cab fees - and you knew she'd do the same for you. As you headed out your front door through heavy blinks, you nearly collided with the still somewhat unfamiliar man in the hallway.

“Sorry,” you blurted, stepping back quickly, your shoulder grazing his firm chest as you knocked into him. He steadied you with one large hand on your arm, the heat of his grip lingering even as he withdrew. He was impressively strong, steading you with a single hand like it was nothing, not even flinching at the weight of your body slamming into him.

“All good,” he said, his voice rough with sleep, though he seemed more alert than you. His striking blue eyes flicked to the travel mug in your hand. “Coffee already?”

You laughed lightly. “Couldn’t function without it.”

John gave a faint huff of amusement, almost a smile. “I hear you.” He checked his watch with a frown, as if he was somehow mistaken about how early it was. “You normally up at 5 on a Saturday?”

“Hell, no.” You replied with another laugh. “But I got tasked with picking up a friend at the airport, so… here we are.” Shrugging with your response, as if it was just one of those inevitable things, like taxes and jury duty.

He hummed in response, before giving a quick head nod towards the elevator, indicating to keep talking as you walked. Oh right, we can’t just stand in the hallway chatting forever. Though the thought of it was quite lovely. But you would be happy for even the few minutes you’d have while you made it to the parking garage.

“So why are you up so early?” You ask, trying to keep a soft lit to your voice to avoid sounding too eager to learn more about the mysterious man’s private life.

“Work.” He responded simply. Not impolitely or brash, just not willing to offer much more than that. Fair enough. There wasn’t much to respond to that, so you just gave a polite nod as you entered the elevator together.

John seemed to understand that he left the conversation at an awkward point, clearing his throat before continuing.

“I work odd hours, it has some ups and downs. I was thinking about retiring, but… I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

“Retiring young sounds nice. But you’d need to have some good hobbies to keep you occupied I guess. Especially if you don’t have kids or grandkids.” Realizing your response could have been interpreted as trying to poke more private information about him, you shifted your gaze from him back to the steel doors. Oops.

But he didn’t seem to mind your rambling, nodding along to your response.

“Yeah,” He agreed, “And I’m not keen on picking up knitting quite yet.”

That made you giggle, and he gestured for you to step off the lift first as the bell chimed at your destination. You bid each other farewell as you took off in your respective destinations toward your cars in the parking lot, and you couldn’t help but sneak a glimpse at what he drove. Though you couldn’t exactly tell what the make was from the distance, you saw him step into a black sedan of some kind. It looked older, not quite one of those extravagant old-school cars you’d seen retirees maintain, maybe from the ‘60s? It was shiny, well-maintained and everything you would imagine a man like him would drive. As you stepped into your own car, you couldn't help but smile to yourself. Perhaps the dreary early morning wasn’t so dreary after all.

Later that week, you saw him in the elevator carrying two heavy boxes labelled KITCHEN. His forearms flexed under the weight, veins standing out in pale ridges against freckled sun-tanned skin.

“Moving day part two?” you asked lightly, again trying not to stare too hard at him. Though it was nearly impossible for your eyes not to trace the dark hair that lined the skin on his chest and flexed arms as he carried the weight effortlessly. He looked down at the boxes, as if he forgot they were even in his arms, then at you. “Something like that.” He shifted them easily to press the elevator button for the floor. “Didn’t realise how much clutter I’d accumulated over the years.”

“Don’t we all,” you said, offering a small smile. “If you need help unpacking, I’m just next door.”

His eyes softened slightly, the crinkle at the corners deepening. “Appreciate it. Might take you up on that.”

But he never did.

Though you did continue to hear faint music through your shared wall in the evenings – blues guitar, old rock, never too loud, only if your head was near the wall. But it was peaceful, like white noise rocking you to sleep. On nights when sleep evaded you, you lay in bed listening to the low hum of it, imagining him sitting on his couch, maybe reading or doing a crossword. The thought of it was comforting, the steady constant next door. Maybe the two of your lives wouldn't quite intertwine the way that you had hoped, but even these small moments were enough to bring you some joy.

----------

Autumn settled over the city in slow, deliberate strokes — crisp air that tasted faintly of woodsmoke and rain, evenings that fell earlier each day, folding the streets into pockets of soft golden streetlight and drifting leaves.

By late afternoon, the sun hovered low, spilling a cold, slanted light that caught on the bare branches and turned apartment windows into squares of fleeting warmth. The wind carried the rustle of dry leaves skittering across the pavement like whispered secrets, sometimes strong enough to tug your scarf loose or slip a chill beneath your coat collar. On some days, the sky stayed a clean, brittle blue, and you’d watch your breath hang in the air as you sat on your balcony for evening fresh air. Other days arrived wrapped in soft drizzle and the earthy scent of wet concrete, the kind of rain that clung to your hair and fogged up car windows.

Mornings were the coldest — your fingertips stung against your coffee mug, and frost began to creep across windshields before dawn. But tucked inside your apartment, the world felt warm: the hum of the radiator, the faint scent of tea or toast, the steady promise of a neighbour’s footsteps down the hall, anchoring you in the soft hush of a season in between.

Even with the increasing colder weather, Saturday mornings became a small ritual of passing each other in the lobby. You returned from the farmers market or grocery store with flowers and a few goods tucked into your bags. He came in from his run, fitted shirt soaked with sweat, short hair flattened to his scalp. It was incredibly endearing. He’d nod in greeting, breathing slightly heavier than usual, eyes flicking to the cluster of flowers in your tote.

“Those for someone special?” he asked once, gesturing to the colourful bouquet wrapped with pink paper.

You shrugged with a smile. “Just me. Makes the place feel less empty.”

He studied you for a moment, then said quietly, “Good habit.”

In small ways, you began to learn him. John was a very precise and routined man as much as he was able to. You could always tell when he would be gone for a while, as when you would pass each other getting to your cars, he would carry a duffel bag with him as opposed to his normal briefcase. Then, and only then, would his routines be out of place. But other than that? You could practically set your watch to his routines. Exactly 45 minutes after he returned home, if it was in the evening, he would begin dinner. You could hear the beeps of his oven, or the whirring of the overhand fan as music flowed through the sound system. He showered late at night, around 10pm, the distant sound of water rushing through pipes lulling you to sleep if you were up a bit later than usual, and had not already been rocked to sleep by his sound system.

But beyond these observations, there were only polite words. Small talk. Fleeting smiles. You knew nothing real about him yet – not his work, not his past, not his reasons for the heaviness you sometimes saw in his eyes. Whatever had grounded him to the point of needing to be so exact. Still, the building felt different since he arrived. The walls felt warmer. The nights felt quieter. Your mornings felt a little brighter. You found yourself smiling more, your lips twitching into grins whenever you could hear the signs of life stirring next door.

You told yourself it was simply because it was nice to have a neighbour who nodded and smiled at you, who was friendlier than most of the other residents, and who felt steady and dependable. But even you didn’t believe yourself. Not when your heart fluttered every time you could hear something on the other side, like a schoolgirl crush. Not when you would cross paths with him throughout the apartment building and feel your entire body hum with a warm buzz. And especially not when your entire body felt so electric when his oceanic blue eyes crinkled in a smile at you.

Your best friend didn’t believe you either. Not when you greeted her with an extra big smile that morning all because you saw him that morning as you left.

You passed John in the lobby as he came back from his Saturday morning run, but instead of heading back from a various market, you were heading out instead. John pulled out one of his earbuds as you passed each other, wishing you a good morning, though you could see his eyes look over your more dressed up appearance.

“Good run?” You asked, your eyes looking over him as well, the way his delts and biceps strained against the fabric of his shirt.

“Not bad. Autumn’s much better for running than summer, that’s for sure.” He answered between steadying breaths, his cheeks still flushed from exertion, veins prominent in his neck. You felt bad for staring, but you couldn’t help it. God, he was gorgeous.

“Big plans?” John gestured towards your outfit - it was nothing elaborate but you were dressed a bit nicer than your normal leggings during a market run. It was cute that he noticed - maybe he was paying attention too.

“Uh, well I’m meeting a friend for coffee.” You answered with a shrug. “She’s in town for a few days so we figured we’d catch up.”

“Nice.” He smiled. Those faint creases deepened, framing his eyes in a way that made him look both older and impossibly kind, as if for that one fleeting moment, all his walls dropped away.“I’ll leave you to it then. Have fun!” John gave you a nod as stepped in the elevator as you smiled in response, at first polite in size, before growing into a full blown beam of smile. He noticed you.

You sat across from your friend at your usual café, a tiny corner spot a few blocks away from your apartment with chipped white mugs and wide windows that let in muted autumn light. It was cozy, just the right amount of background chatter without being echoed chaos, the smell of roasted garlic and fresh bread hung in the air as you sip your coffee distractedly, the steam curling up to flush your cheeks, though the upcoming conversation would do a good enough job to do that alone.

“So,” Your friend said, leaning forward with her chin resting on her palm, giving you a big, cheeky grin as she studied your face. “How’s the mysterious neighbour situation going? Did you two finally have an actual conversation longer than three words?”

You felt even greater heat rise to your cheeks, hoping she would have forgotten that you had texted her about him a few times already, detailing the incredibly handsome and equally mysterious man that lived beside you. He was exciting to text about, but to actually face your crush in a verbal conversation? “We talk,” you said lightly. “Little things. Small talk. Neighbourly stuff.”

Her eyes lit up, her grin now growing mischievous. “Small talk with a capital Tall, Dark, and Broody. Spill. What’s he like? Do you even know his last name yet?”

You shook your head with a small laugh at how she waggled her eyebrows. “Just John. He’s… quiet. Polite. Kind of… I don’t know. He feels grounded. Like he notices everything but doesn’t say much. But when he does say something, it actually matters. I guess." Pursing your lips as you digested your own words, feeling silly about how girlish you sounded.

She raised her eyebrows, swirling her iced coffee. “You’ve got it bad.”

“No,” you protested feebly, with little to no conviction if your voice.

“Really?” Her eyebrow raised even higher as she sat back in her chair with cheekily crossed arms. “Not even when you described him as being “an even hotter James Bond?"

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair as well, the old wood creaking under your weight. Outside, a gust of wind sent yellow leaves fluttering past the window. “I don’t even know why. He’s just… different. He’s older, too. Not in a bad way, just… like he’s lived an entire life before this apartment.”

“He sounds mysterious as hell. A little sad, too.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Sad guys can be hot. Dangerous, but hot.”

You laughed, shaking your head. Whatever that means. Half the time you never even knew that the hell was going to come out of her mouth. “It’s not that. He just feels… like a real adult, I guess. Like nothing could shake him.”

She grinned, leaning forward to steal the piece of complimentary chocolate off the plate under your coffee cup.

“That’s exactly what women always say before they fall hopelessly in love with a man who wears steel-toed boots to the grocery store.”

You snorted into your cup, nearly spilling it all over yourself. “He probably does, honestly. But still helps little old ladies with their baskets”

She chewed thoughtfully, studying your face with narrowed eyes. “Have you thought about asking him to hang out? Grab coffee, borrow sugar, spill something conveniently on your kitchen floor so he has to come help clean it? Come up with some kind of excuse to bend over in front of him?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, because that wouldn’t be obvious.” Though yes, yes you have thought about it. Maybe not the bending over - ahem - but a lame excuse to have an extra conversation with him? Yes.

She shrugged. “Hey, subtlety’s overrated. Life’s short. If he makes you feel… whatever it is you’re feeling, at least let him know you exist as more than just a polite neighbour.”

You were quiet for a moment, picking at your nails as you thought about her words. Outside, the grey clouds had parted, revealing a clean, brittle blue sky. Thinking of him — of his quiet nods in the morning, the way his eyes crinkled, the low rumble of his voice when he said your name — made your chest tighten in a way that was both terrifying and impossibly warm.

“Yeah,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I will.”

As you walked home from the coffee shop alone, your boots crunched along the fallen leaves, a bit more of a bounce in your step from your conversation. If you’re already introduced yourself, then what’s the harm in taking another step or two? Worst case scenario, you just go back to polite nods and small smiles.

Though, that opportunity came to fruition much sooner than you expected.

You paced your kitchen for the third time on Sunday evening, phone clutched in your hand. Your WiFi had been cutting out all day, making it downright impossible to get anything done. You’d tried restarting the router, unplugging it, and cursing under your breath at least twice. Nothing. What the fuck do you do now?

You chewed your lip, glancing at the clock. It was nearly 8pm. Maintenance wouldn’t come until the next evening at the earliest, and you needed to finish submitting your reports by the afternoon tomorrow, the work office was closed for fumigation so you were fucked for that side as well. The only other people you knew in the building were either tired parents who would be less than enthused to be dealing with your internet issues in the middle of bathtime, or elderly and likely not as much help.

Although.

Your mind flashed to him. John probably knows about this stuff, you thought, chest tightening with nerves. You didn’t want to bother him. But your friend’s voice rang in your head again – “At least let him know you exist as more than a polite neighbour.”

Before you could lose your nerve, you pulled on a soft sweater over your leggings and stepped into the hallway, router tucked under your arm, your legs feeling like lead blocks as you walked a few steps.

You knocked softly at first. After a moment, you heard faint footsteps approaching, just when you were about to lose your nerve and just head back to your apartment.

He was halfway through cleaning his trusty Sig when the unexpected knock came at his front door.

At first, he ignored it, thinking it might be someone at another door. It was quite late on a Sunday evening, and he wasn’t expecting anyone. Hell, only his two sergeants who helped him move in were aware of his address, and they knew better than to show up without warning. But when it came again, quiet but purposeful, he set the disassembled slide down on his work towel and stood. He ran a hand through his damp hair, fresh from the shower, and wiped gun oil off his fingers with a rag from his desk before unlocking the door.

When he opened it, he was met with the sight of you – standing in sock feet in soft black leggings and an oversized sweater, hugging a small black router to your chest like a child with a stuffed toy. Your eyes were wide and a little embarrassed, cheeks tinted pink, clearly embarrassed at disrupting him at this hour.

“Evening,” he rumbled, brow furrowing slightly as he glanced at the device. “Everything alright?”

You shifted on your feet. “Um… my WiFi’s been out all day. I’ve tried everything I can think of, and I… I need to send some work reports first thing tomorrow. I’m sorry to bother you, but… do you know anything about this stuff?”

He looked at you for a moment, taking in your slightly trembling fingers on the router, the way you avoided his gaze as though worried he’d be annoyed. A small ache tugged at his chest. You always looked so put together in the mornings you didn’t work from home, rushing off to work with your hair neatly styled, your coffee in hand. Seeing you like this – soft and anxious – stirred something protective deep in his bones.

“Come in,” he said quietly, stepping aside. “Let me take a look.”

You stepped into his apartment, clutching the router tighter to your chest. The warm smell of soap, cologne, and faint gun oil enveloped you as you stepped into the cozy apartment. Your eyes fell on the disassembled handgun laid out on a cloth on his kitchen table, widening at the sight of it. He noticed your surprised blinks and gave a small shrug in return, shoulders barely rising.

“Cleaning it,” he said simply, as if it were as normal as washing dishes. Oh, totally.

You nodded quickly, swallowing your nerves as you handed him the router. He turned it over in his large hands with practiced efficiency, scanning the back before kneeling beside the nearest outlet to plug it in.

“Sometimes these just need a hard reset,” he murmured, fingers deft as he pressed the pinhole button with the end of a paperclip from his desk. “They can be stubborn little bastards.”

You watched him work, your chest tightening at the focus in his expression. The furrow between his brows, the short bristle of his beard, the quiet patience in his movements. You found yourself wondering if he was like this with everything – calm, methodical, unshakeable.

After a few minutes, he stood, placing the router on the counter. “Try it now.”

You unlocked your phone, and relief poured through you as the WiFi icon lit up instantly. “Oh my god. Thank you so much.”

He gave a faint smile, arms crossed across his chest in his standard position. “Anytime.”

You shifted, suddenly aware of the late hour, of how the soft lamp light in his apartment turned his eyes an even deeper blue and how intrusive you were being. “I’ll let you get back to your… cleaning,” you said, gesturing awkwardly to the gun on the table.

His lips twitched in a small, almost amused smile. “Right.”

You stepped back into the hallway, hugging the router to your chest as your heart pounded with quiet exhilaration. As his door closed softly behind you, you realised your hands were trembling.

It wasn’t about the WiFi. Not really.

John watched the door close, listening to your soft footsteps retreat down the hall, brow furrowing as he sat back down at his desk, idly picking up the slide of his Sig once again. But as he ran the oiled cloth along its edge, his mind wasn’t on the weapon. Not even in the slightest.

It was on you – in his apartment, wide-eyed and nervous, looking up at him like he could fix anything in your world.

And for the first time in a long while, he found himself wanting to.

.

Chapter Text

The storm rolled in without warning.

It had been almost a full week since you’d gone into John’s apartment — under the very mundane excuse of your Wi-Fi refusing to cooperate. You hadn’t expected anything from it beyond a brief fix and a polite thank-you, maybe some shared irritation at spotty internet. But what you got instead was a glimpse into something… more. The space had been tidy, lived-in but not cluttered. There was order to it, discipline, as if everything had its place and had better damn well stay there. You watched as he knelt near the wall panel, sleeves pushed up over forearms still faintly dusted with old bruises — and you tried not to look too long at the solid strength in his hands or how easily he worked without needing to think. Like he was used to fixing things quickly. Silently.

But there it was. A desk in the corner of the room, partially in shadow. Papers stacked neatly. A worn leather notebook. And resting beside it, unmistakably, a sidearm. You couldn't say that you were expecting to see a weapon lay so casually in plain sight, but it almost seemed to make sense once you had time to think about it. The quiet, composed way he carried himself. The scars. The restlessness in his shoulders when things were too quiet. You spent the rest of the week trying to unpack it. The casual way he’d let you in, not just physically but into the rhythms of his life — into that unseen part of him that most people probably never got to witness. You were starting to see the edges of who he was, and though he hadn’t handed you any answers outright, they were beginning to reveal themselves all the same.

Still, you hadn’t brought it up. Not directly.

The next time you saw him, it was by the mailbox. You said hello, he offered a small smile. Normal. Easy. As if you weren’t both avoiding the weight of something real between you.

But that Friday evening, the hallway was quiet when you came home, except for the faint sound of music from his apartment — slow, mellow blues humming gently through the wall. The kind of sound that made the floor feel a little warmer under your feet. The kind that made you wonder if he’d chosen that song, or if it had simply chosen him.

You set your keys down and leaned against the door, the music curling around the silence like smoke. You thought again of that gun on the desk. Of the look in his eyes when he talked about people in abstract — mates and work trips and vague stories that always ended before they fully began.

You’d been sitting on the couch with some snacks, scrolling absently through your phone, when the first crack of thunder rattled the windows, starting to cover up the faint and familiar music that flitted though your shared wall. The app on your phone referenced that there would be some rain, but you hadn’t expected the rumbling thunder that boomed in the background. You glanced outside through the open curtains beside you - rain streaked down the glass of the panes, distorting the amber glow of the streetlights a few flights below. The streets were quickly coated with pools of water, trees swaying with the weight of the drops and wind.

Seconds later, the apartment went black.

“Shit.”

You sat in the silent dark, heart thumping as you waited for the emergency lights to flicker on like they always did. Except this time - nothing. The entire floor was dead. You glanced back to your phone, grimacing at the low percentage left. There was no urgent need for your phone, especially since you didn’t need an alarm the next day, but the idea of being completely alone in the pitch black darkness without an active phone made you uneasy. Outside your window, neighbouring buildings were still lit, their windows like rows of unwavering eyes. You couldn’t tell if that was a good sign or not - did this mean that your building was completely fucked, or that it would come on soon?

As you started rifling through your dressers in a half-hearted attempt to try to find a portable battery that you may or may not still have to try to charge your phone, a soft knock at the front door startled you. Turning slowly, you navigated to the front door by the faint glows from the outside lights through your rain-streaked window. Tiptoeing to the door - just in case it was a murderer, like in the podcasts - you peered through the peephole, heart thudding in your chest at the sight.

When you opened the door, you were met with the silhouette of John, his frame filling your doorway. He held a small flashlight, casting an oval of warm light between you.

“You alright?” His voice was low, tinged with concern. Up close, you could see the subtle lines around his eyes, the set of his brow. He was wearing a plain black T-shirt and dark sweats, his hair damp as though he’d showered earlier.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, your pulse still rapid, though for a different reason now. “Just… wasn’t expecting it.”

His eyes searched yours for a moment before he tilted his head slightly. “Got candles?”

“Um… maybe one or two small ones?” You grimaced, feeling embarrassed at your clear lack of preparedness. He exhaled softly, almost a huff of amusement, before stepping aside and gesturing with his flashlight. “Come on. I’ve got tea set up next door. Safer with some light.”

You hesitated only a moment before nodding and following him next door. The hallway felt cavernous in the blackout, the flashlight beam catching the scuffed floors and faded apartment numbers as you walked the thankfully short distance. He unlocked his door and pushed it open, holding it for you. Though it technically wasn’t the first time you had entered his apartment, now that you were formally invited in on his own accord, you felt that you could finally observe it without intruding.

His apartment was sparse but neat. Intentionally decorated, with not much on the walls, but a few books and picture frames lining a few surfaces in the house. The kitchen counters gleamed, wiped clean, and the smell of black tea steeping filled the air, mingling with faint sandalwood and cigar smoke – not fresh smoke, but that embedded scent of someone who used to smoke heavily and was trying to quit, clinging to the jackets hung on the wall. Your eyes glanced over the details - he didn’t seem one for knickknacks or memorabilia, instead choosing a few key pieces. An expensive looking coffee machine sat on the counter, reading glasses and a stack of papers on his dark wood desk, a few shoes and boots lined meticulously by the door. Every item had its specific, intentional place.

He set the flashlight on the table, beam angled up to cast a golden glow across the ceiling and walls.

…“Power’s usually back on in a couple hours,” John murmured as he crossed to the kitchen. “But figured you shouldn’t sit alone in the dark waiting.”

You stood by the doorway a moment longer, feeling the quiet weight of his words settle over you. You shouldn’t sit alone. Not you can’t handle it, not you’d be scared, just... a quiet act of concern. Of care. The unspoken kind.<>

“Thanks,” you said softly, toeing off your slippers near the door and padding inside.

He was already pouring two mugs of tea from the small kettle balanced over a camping stove on the counter—of course he had one of those. Of course he’d know what to do. A soft instrumental track played from his phone speaker, something gentle and low—blues again, slow and heavy, the kind that sounded like a deep exhale. You wondered if he always listened to it, or if he played it more when you were around.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asked, already pouring steaming tea into two heavy mugs.

“Um, just a bit of each please.”

He added a splash of each before sliding the earth-toned mug across the table to you. You wrapped your hands around the warmth, breathing in the earthy scent to steady yourself. Rain lashed the balcony windows, and thunder rolled again, shaking the building’s old glass panes. You sat on the edge of his couch, warm mug now nestled in your palms as you watched the shadows flicker up the wall. The atmosphere was close, intimate in a way that snuck up on you—like the storm outside had shaken something loose between the two of you and you were left sitting in the quiet with whatever remained.

John took the seat beside you, not too close, but close enough. His knee brushed yours when he shifted slightly to set his mug down. He didn't pull away.

“You’ve got good timing,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, teasing. “Right before I descended into full blackout panic.”

“Storm bothering you?” he asked, though his tone wasn't judgemental, just conversational. As if this just like any other normal chat you would have in the hall. Despite his general shieldedness in most interactions you had with the man, he seemed oddly comfortable with you in his home - like if he could only let his guard down in the comfort of his own home. The thought of him being constantly on guard and paranoid made you a bit sad.

You hesitated, embarrassed by the truth. “Less so the storm. Um, something about being in the dark, alone, my phone basically dead isn’t exactly my ideal Friday night.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense, and didn’t tease. Instead, he shifted in his chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, mug cradled loosely in his hands.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Fear keeps you sharp,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the swirling tea. His voice dropped lower, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Complacency is what gets people killed.”

Your breath caught at his words, frowning slightly at the odd response. He blinked, seeming to realise what he’d said, and gave a small shake of his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to… well. You’re safe here.”

You wanted to ask him what he’d seen to make him say that, what darkness lurked behind his guarded eyes. But instead, you simply sipped your tea and let the silence stretch between you, broken only by the storm outside. The two of you watched the lightning fork across the clouds in electric veins of white and violet, the thunder chasing seconds behind, rumbling through your chest like a living thing. Another rumble of thunder rolled overhead, this one gentler than before, like the sky had calmed its tantrum for a moment. You glanced sideways at him, studying the slope of his shoulders in the soft light, the way his jaw flexed slightly when he was thinking. He didn’t speak immediately, and neither did you. There was no rush.

After a long pause, you tilted your head and ventured, “You always this ready for emergencies?”

His gaze slid to you, unreadable for a moment. Then he said, low and even, “You’d be surprised how often things go wrong.”

You let the silence stretch there for a second, your fingers tightening faintly on the mug. “Is that why you had a—” You stopped yourself, searching for the right phrasing. “When I came by last week, I saw the—on your desk.”

His eyes didn’t flick away from yours. “Figured you did.”

Figured you did

His voice was quiet, eyes still on his tea, thumb circling the rim of the mug as if the motion kept him grounded. He didn’t offer more. No explanation. No apology. Just that—flat and simple, with a finality that made it clear he wasn’t ready to talk about it. You waited for a beat, but he didn’t look up. The silence stretched just long enough to become noticeable, just a bit awkward, leaving you to shift uncomfortably in your seat and dread even bringing it up. God why did you have to ruin an otherwise lovely moment.

Then, with a small inhale, he leaned forward and changed the subject.

“Kettle’s on backup gas,” he said, nodding toward the little camping stove. “Still hot if you want more.”

You blinked, the topic shift abrupt but not unkind. Just… evasive. A door gently but firmly closed. He wasn’t brushing you off — more like bracing himself behind a wall he wasn’t sure he wanted you on the other side of just yet. And that was okay. You had barely known each other, and here you were, asking about things in his own home that you were nosy about after showing up unexpectedly. It was only fair that he didn't want to divulge all of his secrets with you.

You nodded slowly. “Thanks. I’m good for now.”

The blues music played on softly, like the only thing brave enough to fill the air between you. The storm showed no signs of letting up. Rain lashed the windows in rhythmic waves, and thunder cracked so loud it rattled the dishes in his cupboards. You jumped slightly at the sudden boom, nearly spilling the hot tea onto yourself. John noticed, turning to you, eyes soft and thoughtful, still no sign of judgement at your jumpiness through the evening.

“Looks like you could use a distraction.” He said with a kind smile, glancing around the room as though making a quiet decision. “Know any card games?”

You blinked. “Like Crazy 8s?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking more along the lines of poker or rummy."

Your lips curved slightly. “Been a while, but after a round or so, yeah.”

“Good.” He eased out of the chair and rummaged through a drawer in his coffee table, pulling out an old deck with worn edges and fading red backs. He waved you over to the living area, pulling a few blankets off the couch to the floor around the coffee table.

“Get settled. I’ll grab us something a bit better than tea.”

Oh?

Curious, you also got up from the table, before settling into the carpet, wrapping one of the blankets around yourself as you watched as he moved back to the kitchen. He kneeled to one of the cupboards, returning to the living area with a half-full bottle of whiskey in his grip, two short glasses in the other. He set it on the wooden coffee table with a soft clink and settled along with you.

“Thought you said tea and coffee were your drinks of choice,” you teased lightly as he poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass.

He shrugged, setting the bottle back down before reaching for the cards, shuffling them with a quiet, expert precision. “They’re for the mornings. Whiskey’s for weather like this.”

You were sitting opposite him, legs folded under you to prop you up to the table, the warm blanket pooling around your waist. Whispers of his cologne were woven into the strands, and you resisted the urge to bring the soft fabric up to your face. Instead, you picked up your glass, letting the sharp scent of oak and smoke fill your nose before taking a careful sip. Whiskey wasn’t your typical drink of choice, but you trusted the man to have good taste. The burn rolled down your throat, warmth blooming in your chest as you watched him deal out cards with steady hands.

“What are we playing?” you asked softly, throat a bit scratchy from the full-bodied liquid.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, eyes flicking up to yours with a glint of amusement. “I’ll teach you whatever you don’t know.”

The double meaning of his words caused a stir inside of you, fighting to keep a blush away as you laughed in return. “Confident, are we?”

“Just experienced.”

Oh, I'm sure you are.

For a while, you played quietly, the storm battering the windows like a drumline in the background. He explained rules with quiet patience, his deep voice rumbling over the soft whistle of wind outside. Every so often, his eyes crinkled with a small smile when you won a hand or cursed under your breath for losing one. You tried to focus on your cards, on the rules he was patiently explaining in that low, gravelled voice, but your thoughts drifted. Wondering what his hands would feel like if they weren’t just dealing cards. Wondering what it would feel like to lean forward and brush your lips across his smile, to feel that warmth against your mouth instead of just your chest.

At some point, after taking a slow sip of whiskey, you asked, “So… where’d you learn to play cards so well?”

He paused, fingers hovering above the deck. His gaze drifted past you to the window, as though watching a memory play out beyond the rain-streaked glass, blue eyes soft with remembrance.

“Picked it up while travelling for work,” he said after a moment, his voice softer than before. “Long nights with nothing but a pack of cards and a bit of bad instant coffee to keep us awake.”

Work? Us?

You swallowed, feeling the heaviness slip into his tone like a shadow, trying to be cautious of your next words. John didn’t seem to be uncomfortable by the conversation, but it was clear that he was careful about what details he shared. Travelling for work… then he probably wasn’t a police officer. Then what was he?

“Was it always poker?”

He let out a quiet huff of breath, almost a laugh but without any real humour. “Poker, rummy, blackjack… anything to keep our minds busy. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.”

You watched him, noticing the faint crease between his brows, the distant look in his striking eyes. Wetting your lips with another sip of whiskey, fingers tapping on your thighs for a moment as you got up the nerve for your next comment. You had just enough alcohol in your system to lower your inhibitions to be a bit bolder, though still wanting to be mindful of what was already a very sensitive and new relationship - still barely just friendly neighbours.

“Must be an exciting job if you’re travelling all the time.”

The question hung in the space between you, mingling with the soft patter of rain against the balcony doors. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back, his shoulders resting against the bottom of his couch, his broad shoulders sinking back into the dark leather as he distractedly shuffled the cards again for another round. His jaw shifted slightly as though working through the words. Finally, he let out a quiet breath.

“Security consulting,” he said simply.

You tilted your head, watching him. Something told you that he wasn’t being entirely truthful though.... you weren’t sure if you wanted to even know the full details. What even was security consulting? The casualness of the handgun on his desk made you think that it was more than overnight mall security. You weren’t well-versed enough with the brands of handguns (or any guns for that matter) to identify exactly what it was, but it looked expensive. If that was what he had just laying around like a piece of decor, what on earth was hidden away? God, what if he had one of those set-ups in the apartment with a rack of guns in a cabinet. What if there was one stashed in the couch you were sitting on?

Okay. Maybe a bit dramatic.

He wasn't actually James Bond.

“That sounds… vague.”

A faint flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “That’s ‘cause it is.”

There was something final in his tone, something that closed a door before you even realised you’d knocked. You nodded softly, looking down at the cards he slid towards you, and decided not to press further. But later, when you watched him quietly gather his winning run off the table, you wondered what shadows still followed him through his days – and whether he’d ever trust you enough to name them.

You accepted the finality of his words - after all, you had only known each other for what, six weeks or so now? Instead of following up with an intrusive question, you fumbled with your cards, trying to arrange them into something that looked vaguely strategic in the lapse of conversation, eyes narrowing as you scanned them back and forth. John watched you from across the low coffee table, still leaning back against his couch though you could tell his guard was slowly lowering as you had decided not to press further into his private life. His blue eyes flicked over your hand with faint amusement.

“Don’t look so gutted,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he fought back a smile at your screwed up face, already unhappy with the hand you were dealt. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

You let out a quiet groan, dropping your cards onto the table in mock despair. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Poker Champion.”

That earned you a soft huff of laughter. “Didn’t say I was a champion. Just… experienced.”

Another mention of him being experienced caused your chest to feel tight – a fluttering ache that made your breath catch, that made you look away before your gaze lingered too long. You couldn’t help but watch his hands as he shuffled and dealt the cards throughout the night. They were large, broad-palmed and strong, with thick fingers and faint scars crossing his knuckles and the backs of his hands. Scars from work he’d never talk about, each one a quiet history written into his skin.

His motions were skilled and precise, flipping the cards over with a flick of his thumb, the quiet rasp of the material against itself oddly calming. There was something deeply intimate about it, watching him do something so ordinary with such quiet focus. Every now and then, his thumb would pause at the corner of a card, tapping lightly before sliding it into place, as if he were thinking about something far away. You found yourself wondering what those hands would feel like elsewhere – curled around a mug, pressed to the small of your back, brushing hair from your face, holding your wrists in a more intimate moment. Jesus.

A flush crept on your cheeks at the thought. You tore your gaze away, pretending to focus on the cards in your lap, but your chest felt tight with the sudden rush of wanting. Wanting to feel those hands not just dealing cards, but touching you in ways that had nothing to do with the game at all. Blinking rapidly to try to dispel the thought, but it lingered, sticky and warm behind your ribs.

He looked up at you then — just briefly — and the corners of his mouth pulled into a faint smile, like he’d caught the drift of your thoughts without needing to hear them. The cards slipped smoothly into a neat stack beneath his hands, but he didn’t set them aside just yet. You cleared your throat, swallowing away the desire and heat that crawled up inside of you, burning your throat like the whiskey you’d been sipping on all evening. Narrowing your eyes playfully, picking your cards back up.

“You always look like you’re plotting something.”

“Probably am,” he rumbled, smirking as he moved around a few cards in his hand, clearly already planning something to wipe the floor of you once again.

You stared down at your cards, brow furrowed in concentration, your slightly inebriated state making it difficult to even remotely come up with a reasonable enough strategy to try to beat the man at his own game.

“Here,” he murmured.

Before you could react, he shifted closer, leaning over the table. The scent of him – cologne, whiskey, and something darker and earthy – wrapped around you, warm and grounding, clouding your already warm and fuzzy head. His hand came into view, large and scarred, the veins standing out faintly beneath his skin as he gently rearranged your cards.

“See?” he said softly, voice deep against the shell of your ear. “You keep these two together. Builds your run faster.”

You nodded wordlessly, your breath hitching at the quiet warmth radiating off him. Your chest felt tight, heat blooming under your skin as his fingers ghosted over yours, guiding them to hold the cards properly. His touch was so light, so careful – and somehow that tenderness made your stomach flip harder than if he’d grabbed your wrist with all his strength. The quiet focus in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. When he finally pulled back, the air felt colder, emptier, as though he’d taken something with him. You swallowed, staring blankly at the cards in your trembling hands, your pulse thudding so hard in your chest you wondered if he could hear it from across the table.

“Try again,” he said softly, settling back onto his side of the rug, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was something there – a flicker of unspoken awareness, a quiet acknowledgement of the moment that had just passed between you. And as you forced yourself to look back down at your cards, cheeks burning, you realised your hands were still shaking where his had touched them.

The hand continued, your eyes still lingering on how his large hands moved with quiet precision, fingers flicking each card down with a practiced ease. For a moment, you hesitated before asking, “You’ve… been to a lot of places, haven’t you?”

His movements slowed slightly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Another flash of something guarded there, a shadow that passed quickly before he replied, “Yeah.”
“Where’s the nicest place you’ve ever been? Not for… work, I mean. Just… beautiful.”

He leaned back, gaze drifting past you as though picturing somewhere far away. His thumb tapped softly against the edge of the deck. “Scotland,” he said finally. “Highlands. Cold as hell but… peaceful. Wild. Makes you feel small in a good way.”

You smiled faintly, imagining him standing in rugged hills under slate-grey skies, wind tearing at his jacket, face turned into the cold. “Sounds beautiful.”

“It is,” he murmured, blinking back to you with a small smile that softened his entire face. “You’d like it there.”

Your heart thudded quietly at the way he said it – as if he’d already imagined taking you. You cleared your throat, trying to banish the thought as you fanned out your cards again. “Well, Mr. Probably-Plotting-Something, let’s finish this hand. I’m determined to beat you at least one more time tonight.”

He chuckled low under his breath, eyes crinkling deeply now with real amusement. “Careful what you wish for, love.”

Love. Fucking hell, was he trying to kill you? Nibbling the top of your lower lip as you tried to focus, you peeked back up at him one more time.

“Thank you for teaching me,” you said softly.

His eyes flicked back to yours, the corner of his mouth curling into a small, tired smile. The crinkles at his eyes deepened, softening his entire expression.

“Anytime,” he murmured, before placing the deck down carefully on the table between you. His eyes rose to meet yours, and in the brief flicker of lightning that illuminated the room, you saw it – the weight he carried, the quiet grief woven into the fabric of his calm.

The two of you finished the hand - you had actually won, though you were convinced he had let you succeed. As the storm had now eased to gentle rain, and your eyes were starting to close on themselves, you knew with a heavy heart that it was time to finally leave. You both rose from the floor, each branching out into a respective stretch as he walked you to the front door. Before you could say anything, he held up a finger as he rummaged through a drawer in the kitchen. He emerged with a rechargeable battery pack and a small black lantern, clicking it on to check the battery. Its warm glow illuminated the room, softer than the harsh beam of the flashlight.

“Take both of these for the night,” he said, placing them in your hands. “Just in case the power doesn’t come back before morning.”

You looked up at him, at his quiet strength, his unspoken offer of protection. “Thank you, John.”

His gaze remained soft, almost caring as he looked upon you. If you didn't know better, you would've thought he was reluctant for you to leave.

“Anytime,” he said again, gently placing the lantern in your hands. There was something in his voice—quiet, grounded—like he meant it more than he could say out loud.

When you stepped into the hallway, the darkness didn’t feel as heavy anymore. The faint creak of the floor under your feet and the flickering glow of the lantern felt less eerie now, like you were carrying a piece of him back with you. And somehow, that made the empty spaces feel less hollow.Back in your apartment, you set the lantern down beside the couch. Its warm light spilled outward, stretching long shadows across the walls. You curled beneath the blanket again, tugging it high beneath your chin as the storm softened to a gentle rhythm—a steady patter against the windows, like the earth was slowly catching its breath again.

You were about to close your eyes when you heard it.

Faint, barely there—but unmistakable. The low, haunting wail of a blues guitar slipped through the shared wall between your apartments, soft and warbled like an old record spinning on a worn needle. The slow rise and fall of a man’s voice followed, gravelly and rich with ache, the kind of song made for midnight thoughts and memories that never quite leave.You lay there in silence, eyes fixed on the ceiling, letting the sound wash over you like a balm. It was melancholy, but warm. Lonely, but familiar. And the fact that he was playing it now, at this hour, after the quiet comfort you'd just shared—it felt intentional. Like a message meant only for you.

Your lips curved into the smallest of smiles, heart aching in that tender, heavy way you only get when something good sneaks up on you. Not the kind of happiness that made you giddy—but the kind that settled deep in your chest, slow and certain.

For the first time in years, you felt safe during a storm.

Outside, lightning forded across the sky again, briefly lighting up the rain-soaked balcony. The trees bowed beneath the weight of the weather, and far below, the city moved on in dim-lit silence. You wondered if he was still awake—if he sat on that same old chair in his living room, watching the sky split open with light, sipping tea that had long since gone cold.

You felt tethered—softly, subtly—to the man who had opened his door to you when the lights went out.

To the blues humming between you like a secret only the two of you could hear. And for the first time since he moved in, you realised you didn’t feel so alone anymore.

.

.

Chapter Text

You left your apartment early that Monday morning, the faint scent of lingering rain clinging to the concrete and damp brick from the weekend’s showers. Your overstuffed bag threatened to slip off your shoulder as you fumbled with your keys and travel mug, trying to lock the door without pouring scalding coffee down your wrist. When you finally turned around, you nearly collided with him.

John was just finishing locking his own door, clad in dark jeans and a charcoal shirt that stretched across the lines of his chest. A faded olive jacket hung open over it, the worn collar brushing against his jaw as he moved. His hair was still damp from his shower, slicked back with no particular care, and his beard looked freshly brushed. The earthy spice of his aftershave mingled with the cool morning air, subtle and clean.

“Morning,” you said, a little breathless, heart tripping unreasonably in your chest.

He glanced over, those piercing blue eyes catching yours. The quiet warmth behind them softened the rest of his features—the edges of his mouth, the faint crinkles at his eyes. “Morning,” he rumbled, then let his gaze drift to the precarious balancing act in your arms. “Need a hand there, love?”

You flushed, adjusting the strap of your bag as it slid again. “I’m fine. Multitasking champion, remember?”

“Right,” he said with a soft huff, clearly amused. “I seem to recall you nearly dropping your phone twice last week alone.”

“That was a tactical decision,” you shot back with a smirk, shifting your grip on the coffee. “Keeps me alert before caffeine kicks in.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm in his chest as he stepped forward to press the elevator button with one knuckle. The two of you stood in comfortable silence until the doors slid open, and then stepped in together. The quiet hum of the elevator filled the space, along with the gentle rustle of his jacket as he shifted beside you.

You didn’t say much, but you didn’t need to.

Every morning interaction like this had become easier, more natural—like slipping into a shared rhythm neither of you had to name. And as the elevator descended, you found yourself smiling into the steam of your coffee, wondering when this quiet comfort had started to feel so much like home.

“Thanks again… for the other night,” you murmured, glancing up at him with a soft, grateful smile. “Cards and whiskey were… exactly what I needed.”

He gave a quiet huff—half chuckle, half sigh—as he slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Anytime,” he said simply, voice low and calm. “Storms are better with a bit of whiskey… and company.”

The elevator dinged open, interrupting the small moment, and the two of you stepped out into the low hum of the underground parking garage. You fell into step beside him, the distant echoes of footsteps and car engines mixing with the familiar scent of concrete and exhaust. It was quiet in that early hour, like the city hadn’t quite shaken off its sleep yet. You wondered, briefly, if the conversation would end there—just a polite nod and parting words. But as you reached the spot where you usually split off, he slowed slightly, glancing down at you.

“Have a good day at work,” he said, voice soft but steady, like it mattered to him that you did.

“You too,” you replied, pulse fluttering a little too hard in your chest. You tried to play it cool, smile easy. “Stay safe.”

Something shifted in his expression—nothing dramatic, just the smallest softening. The faint lines around his eyes deepened like he was about to say something else… but didn’t. Instead, he gave a small nod and turned, heading toward his car. You stood there for a moment longer, the echo of his footsteps trailing behind him, before finally sliding into your own vehicle. As the door shut behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, pressing your head lightly against the steering wheel for just a second. It was ridiculous, you knew. You were too grown for some fluttery, schoolgirl crush.

But that didn’t stop the smile that curled at your lips.

You didn’t know what this was—if it was just quiet friendship or if there was something waiting just beneath the surface. But you were willing to find out.

-----------------------

Even with your car, sometimes walking was the only thing that settled the static in your head. A peaceful Friday evening had rolled around, and after a long week, you craved the fresh air more than the hum of your engine. So you tucked your coat tighter around your body and headed down the block toward the little strip of local shops and the farmers market tucked behind them.

The autumn air had sharpened since the storm last week. It stung at your cheeks with a brisk bite, but not enough to make it unpleasant. The sky had already begun shifting into dusky pinks and golds, casting long shadows between the buildings. Your boots crunched softly against the drying leaves scattered along the sidewalk, and every breath you drew in was tinged with chimney smoke and distant woodfires—clean, earthy, nostalgic. Much more welcoming than the downpour last week, though if you were being honest with yourself, you wouldn’t have minded another opportunity to spend an evening with John. Not at all.

You browsed the small vendors for a while, letting the rhythm of the market ease the static in your mind—the quiet murmur of couples drifting past, the soft clink of ceramic windchimes in the breeze, the distant laughter of children darting through the stalls with sticky fingers and cocoa-smudged cheeks. It was peaceful in a way that felt rare and earned, like the city had momentarily exhaled. Still, despite the warmth of it all—the calm, the color, the comfort—your thoughts kept circling back to the man in the next apartment.

You hadn’t seen much of him since Monday. Just a few passing moments in the hallway—quick glances, a polite “evening” exchanged in low tones. Nothing more. And yet… part of you kept wishing for another storm. Another blackout. Another excuse to knock on his door and stay just a little longer than you should.

Maybe this wasn’t just a crush anymore.

You walked home slowly, tote bags heavy with fresh vegetables, a warm loaf of bread, and a jar of local honey that clinked softly with every step. The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting everything in a golden haze that lit up the world around you in warm tones. Fallen leaves scattered along the sidewalk like confetti, their colours brilliant—burnt orange, deep crimson, and gold—crunching beneath your boots as you walked. Every so often, a breeze rustled through the bare branches above, sending a flurry of leaves skittering across the pavement, their edges scraping softly over the concrete. You tugged your scarf tighter around your neck, breathing in the soft fabric’s warmth, the crispness of the air, and something faintly sweet that lingered in the chill—woodsmoke, maybe, or the lingering scent of cinnamon from the cider stand.

You felt… peaceful. Quietly content in a way that felt rare and startling. The kind of stillness that only came when you let yourself slow down long enough to feel it. The market always left you with that—like you were bringing home more than groceries. A little reminder of simple, gentle living. Something human. As you climbed the front steps of your building, the sky above had deepened into a dusky lavender, stars just starting to peek through the velvet dusk. Your thoughts, again, returned to him.

You imagined knocking on his door. Offering him a slice of bread, still warm, with melting butter. Imagining that faint crease in the corner of his eyes when he smiled. Imagining something soft exchanged in return. Inside, the warmth of your apartment welcomed you like an old friend. You set your bags on the kitchen counter and began unpacking, the cozy silence wrapping around your space like a blanket. The bread was still warm in its paper wrapping, and its scent—earthy, fragrant with rosemary and roasted garlic—filled the room as you unwrapped it. Heavenly didn’t even begin to cover it.

You planned to take just a bite to tide you over before cooking dinner. But after one slice, buttery and golden, an idea took hold—sudden and stubborn.

You tapped your nails thoughtfully against the countertop, hesitating only a moment.

Then you found yourself buttering two thick slices, the heat from the bread turning the butter to silk. You placed them gently on a small decorated plate—one of the heirlooms passed down from your grandmother. The delicate pattern of blue florals around the edges always brought you back to childhood afternoons in her kitchen, where the scent of freshly baked bread and sweetness filled every corner.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t let yourself. You just glanced toward the door… and wondered.

Smiling to yourself at the thought, you added a careful drizzle of the honey you'd picked up—golden, fragrant, glistening across the warm crumb. You wrapped the plate in a clean tea towel to keep the heat in, hands moving with practiced care even as your heart thudded with quiet nerves. You stood in front of your door for a long moment, debating. It was probably nothing. Just a kind gesture. A neighborly thing to do.

But still, it felt like more.

You exhaled and stepped out into the hall, feet soft on the carpeted floor. When you reached his door, you hesitated again, knuckles hovering above the wood. You could turn back. Say you changed your mind. Save yourself the overthinking spiral later.

But you didn’t.

You knocked—soft, just once. A pause. Then a second time, just a little firmer.For a moment, nothing. Then the slow, measured sound of footsteps approached, heavy and unhurried. The door opened a beat later, and there he was.Messy dark hair, beard peppered with silver, grey joggers slung low on his hips, and a fitted black tee that stretched lightly across his chest. His blue eyes flicked down to the plate in your hands, then up again—his brow quirking, just slightly.

“What’s this, then?”

“Just a little something,” you said, your voice lighter than you felt. “Got it fresh at the market. Thought… maybe you’d like something warm tonight.”

He looked at you for a moment—longer than was strictly casual. His gaze unreadable, brows slightly furrowed, jaw tense in a way that made your stomach flutter. For a breath, you wondered if this was a mistake. If you’d misread the air between you. Maybe this was too much, too forward for a Thursday night. You were just about to pull the plate back when his expression softened. The faintest crinkle formed at the corners of his eyes as he reached out, his large hand brushing against yours as he took the dish. The contact sent a quiet thrill through your arm, something warm tightening in your chest at the rough heat of his fingers.

“Thank you,” he murmured, low and sincere. “Smells bloody incredible.”

You smiled, cheeks warming. “It’s nothing, really. Just… rosemary’s my favourite, and I couldn’t resist picking up extra at the market. Figured I’d share.”

His mouth twitched, that same subtle smile playing at the edge of his lips. “I do like rosemary.”

You lingered in the doorway for a beat too long, lips parting like you might say something else, but it caught on your tongue. Instead, you simply nodded and stepped back, offering a softer smile of your own.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, love,” he said, voice quieter now—gentler. It lingered with you even as you turned back toward your apartment, even as the soft click of his door closing echoed behind you. Love. There it was again.

He set the plate down on the kitchen counter, pausing to look at it for a long moment.

Two thick slices of bread, butter still glistening, sweet honey catching in the light. The smell rose into the room—garlic and rosemary and something rich and comforting. Nostalgic for his childhood, it reminded him of the bread his own mother made growing up. Something that made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t name -o one had brought him something warm, just because, in longer than he cared to admit. He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face, the gesture weary but quiet. Then he picked up one of the slices. It was still warm against his palm. Steam curled faintly from the crust.

The first bite was slow. He closed his eyes, let the savoury sweetness settle on his tongue, and for a second—just a second—he let himself feel it. The care. The thought. The softness he hadn’t asked for… but missed, more than he’d realized.

“Dangerous girl,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head with a low chuckle. But the smile that curled across his face didn’t fade. Not even as he took the last bite.

Later, he washed the plate gently, drying it with a towel and setting it carefully on the counter.

He wasn’t ready to return it just yet.

---------------

It was another quiet Saturday morning.You’d always been fond of lazy weekends—slow starts, familiar rituals, and a quiet sort of solitude that wrapped around you like a well-worn blanket. Your friends sometimes teased you for being such a homebody, and in fairness… you kind of were. But was that really so bad? In no way were you a hermit, but when you had such a cozy apartment with the beautiful view that overlooked the city, a busy job and your routines that kept you content, it was hard to choose spontaneity. Spontaneity rarely won out when comfort was already waiting for you at home.

Still… maybe there was space for something new. You thought about that as you applied light makeup in the bathroom mirror—just enough to look awake, present. Saturday mornings were usually reserved for the market, but maybe today you’d do something more. Coffee with a friend? A walk through the ravine trails? Maybe even go out tonight—maybe. You pulled on some comfortable but decent clothes—soft jeans, a sweater you liked, something that said “I didn’t try too hard” while still sparing you the shame of running into someone in pajamas. The last thing you needed was your elderly neighbor making a well-meaning comment about how you “look tired lately.”

You were just loading the dishwasher with your breakfast dishes when a soft knock at the door broke the morning stillness. Please not another door-to-door sales pitch. If one more person tries to sell me a vacuum—

But that thought died the moment you glanced through the peephole.

John.

Your inner complaints ceased as you looked through the peephole, heart fluttering at the sight in the hallway. Quickly adjusting your sweater and patting any flyaway hairs, you opened the door to find him standing there. He wore dark jeans and a fitted navy t-shirt under his olive jacket, hair tucked under a beanie, beard brushed neat. In his hand was your ceramic plate, now clean and carefully wrapped in the tea towel you’d given him.

“Morning,” he said, voice low and slightly rough with sleep. The corners of his eyes crinkled faintly as he offered that same small, devastating smile that never failed to warm your chest. “Brought this back before I forget.”

You returned the smile, fingers brushing his as you accepted the plate. “Thank you.”

He shifted slightly, gaze flicking over you once like he was making sure you were alright before continuing. “Bread was… brilliant,” he murmured, his voice lower still. “Haven’t had something like that in a long time.”

His response made you… almost sad for a moment as you briefly wondered about the man and his habits. From what you could glean about his apartment and appearance, he didn’t seem to deprive himself of nice things - that coffee maker that probably cost a month’s rent, neat clothes that fit him perfectly to name a few. But you were getting the idea that he didn’t exactly treat himself to small luxuries - seemingly frivolous things like rosemary and honey bread. But from your experience, those truly were the things that brought you so much joy. Finding happiness in the smallest moments. You made a silent vow to try to weave these little moments more into your interactions with John.

The thought sat with you for a moment, made you a little sad in a way you couldn’t quite explain. So you simply smiled again, holding the plate close to your chest. “I’m really glad you liked it,” you said gently.

There was another quiet beat between you. You weren’t sure if he was going to say anything else—but he didn’t. He just nodded once, those pale blue eyes lingering on yours with something unreadable in them, then dropped to the plate in your hands before he turned.

He hesitated again, glancing past you into your apartment, then back at your eyes. “You eaten yet?”

You blinked. “Uh… no, actually. Just making coffee and trying to figure out what to do today.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, his head tilting with a cheeky glint in his eyes. “Let me take you for one. I’m headed out anyway. There’s a decent place two streets over. Doesn’t get busy ‘til the afternoon on the weekends.”

Your heart thudded, warmth spreading through your chest despite the cool autumn air drifting in from the hall. You nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. Was he asking you on a date? Like an actual date?

“Yeah. That sounds… nice.” Real cool.

“Take a few minutes to grab what you need,” he said, eyes crinkling faintly again, stepping back from the door to give you privacy. “Don’t rush. I’ll wait.” Despite seeming to be such a commanding and authoritative presence, he could be such a gentleman. You waved him in as you collected your things.

As you turned to grab your scarf and boots, your hands trembled just slightly with quiet, fluttering excitement, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth that you tried to hide. Because it wasn’t just a neighbourly gesture of keeping you company through a storm. It wasn’t just being polite and joining you in the elevator or mindless small talk. It was him wanting to spend the morning with you. Maybe your friend was right after all.

“Have you met the other residents yet?” You asked as you laced up your boots.

“A few. The ones with the small kids are a bit too busy to chat.” He said with a smile. “However. Someone mentioned there’s uh, a few folks that like to ....” John seemed to be choosing his next words carefully, but after living in this building for a few years, you knew exactly what he was trying to say.

“Gossip? Talk shit about everyone else?” Though your words weren’t laced with malice, just followed by a resigned sigh that turned into a short giggle as you looked up to see his eyebrow cocked in return.

“Something like that, yeah.” He let out a short laugh, relieved that he wasn’t the first one to make a dig at your neighbours.

“Yeah.” You shifted over from your spot on the chair to peer into the hall, before waving him a bit closer and speaking with a much more hushed tone. “Ruth across the hall? Lord, if you give her an inch, she’ll take a marathon. Don’t tell her anything you wouldn’t want in a damn newsletter.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm. She watches through the peephole day and night.” You stood from the chair, slinging your purse over your shoulder. His mouth twitched faintly at the corners, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement as he listened. “Someone on our floor had an affair, his wife used to travel for work often I guess. He managed to keep it secret for a long time apparently, but one time he brought her back to their place instead of going to hers.”

A small crease formed between his brows, not in irritation but in concentration, as though he was carefully imagining the scene you described as you chattered on. His blue eyes softened around the edges, tiny lines fanning out from their corners when he gave a quiet, incredulous huff of laughter.

“And, even though it was like 2am, she saw the whole thing through the peephole I guess - whole building knew by the next evening. Hell, the whole block probably knew.”

He let out a whistle. “Pretty impressive. Though the bastard had it comin’, didn’t he?” John shook his head at the ridiculousness of the whole situation as you giggled.

“Okay, I think I’m all good.” You nodded, gesturing for the door. While you stood in the hallway as you locked the door, there was a low creak of a door opening across the hall.

Speak of the fucking devil.

The two of you looked at each other with faces usually reserved for mischievous children who just got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. I really fucking hope she didn’t just hear us talking about her.

“Oh, good morning, dear!” the elderly woman chirped at you before her eyes flicked to John, narrowing slightly with sudden curiosity. “And… well, I don’t believe we’ve properly met, have we?”

It took everything you had not to roll your eyes at her obviousness, clearly eager for more details on who this mysterious and handsome man was, and why the hell you two had been spending so much time together. Honestly, you couldn’t blame her - hell you were surprised she managed to make it almost two months, though it also could’ve been an intentional plot to try to get even more gossip. Dealing with her made you feel like a damn conspiracy theorist sometimes.

John straightened slightly in response, giving her a polite nod, hands tucked behind his back. “John. Moved in somewhat recently.”

She peered up at him, eyes bright and assessing behind thick glasses perched on her wrinkled nose. “Yes, I’ve seen you coming and going at strange hours,” she said, her tone teetering between nosy and friendly. You shot her a faint warning glance, cheeks burning, but John only smiled politely, a small curve of his lips without showing teeth. “Something like that.”

She took in his response, as if mentally assessing if he passed a test, before tsking approvingly. “Well, I’m sure it’s nice to have a strong gentleman around. Makes us all feel safer.” Ruth’s eyes turned to you with a knowing glance, as if this was a common conversation point between the two of you. Yeah, you spent your days talking with the old woman across the hall how you both wanted more hot men in the building.

John’s eyes flicked to you briefly, the corners crinkling as if suppressing a laugh at your mortified expression and flushed cheeks. “Just here to mind my own, ma’am. But if you ever need a hand, knock.”

Ruth beamed in return. “Oh I certainly will keep that in mind, John. And,” she turned back to you. “If you happen to have any nice friends, I’m sure this lovely young woman would appreciate the company. Lord knows the last time this one went on a proper date.”

Oh. My. God.

You were speechless, blinking in triple-time as you tried to come up with a response that would somehow make you look less like a fool, but before your frazzled brain could spit out anything, Ruth simply patted your arm and nodded to John before heading back inside.

“She’s harmless,” you mumbled, cheeks hot, eyes fixed on the ground as the two of you stepped towards the elevator.

His smile grew fractionally, eyes warm with amusement as you walked towards the elevator. “I’m sure she is.”

“She probably thinks we’re dating,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes as the numbers clicked by on the metal walls as you headed down to the lobby. “Or plotting a secret affair. Or burying bodies in the storage lockers. Hard to tell with her.”

You glanced up at him just in time to see the corners of his mouth twitch. He let out a low chuckle, deep and warm, his shoulders shaking faintly under his jacket.

“Burying bodies, eh?” he rumbled, eyes glinting with quiet amusement as he looked down at you. “Suppose that’d be easier than dealing with her questions.”

You grinned, warmth spreading through your chest at the sound of his laugh. “Exactly. She’d probably volunteer to help just so she knows where they’re buried.”

That earned you another small chuckle, this one softer, almost fond as he shook his head at you. The elevator doors opened, and as he gestured for you to step out first, his eyes met yours, still bright with that lingering smile.

“Dangerous woman,” he murmured under his breath, shaking his head with quiet mirth as he followed you inside.

And as you walked side by side down the street in the fresh autumn air, you realised it felt… nice. This quiet routine with him. The easy small talk, the passing smiles. The feeling of having someone solid nearby – someone whose presence made your chest feel steadier, even on days you hadn’t realised you needed it. Even if damn Ruth happened to try and ruin everything.

The café was only a ten-minute walk from your building, tucked onto a quiet side street lined with brick townhouses and small, bare trees. The morning was crisp and clear, sunlight slanting low across the sidewalk, catching on fallen leaves that scraped lightly underfoot.

John held the door open for you as you stepped inside, the scent of roasted coffee beans and warm pastries wrapping around you immediately like a hug. Soft music played overhead, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine in the warmly lit building. It was incredibly cozy, with exposed brick walls, and hanging plants with leaves that curled against the shelves. You watched as he ordered a black coffee for himself and let you choose whatever you wanted – selecting a vanilla latte. Maybe it was less cool than just drinking plain black coffee, but whatever. His large hand rested lightly against your back as you moved aside for the next person in line, a casual touch that sent warmth flooding through your chest despite the chill clinging to your coat sleeves.

You found a small table near the window. He sat across from you, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his cup cradled loosely in his other hand. The morning sun lit up a light spray of freckles on his nose that you hadn’t noticed before - they were almost adorable, a delightful contrast with the crinkles that crowned his eyes and the faint silver in his beard.
For a moment, you both sat there in quiet contentment, sipping your drinks as you watched the street wake up outside, another busy autumn day beginning. You wondered if there would be any new pop-up farmer’s markets when he spoke.

“Busy day ahead?” he asked finally, his gravelled voice breaking the silence.

You glanced up from your latte, steam curling gently in the golden morning light that poured through the front windows. The corner booth you shared was tucked away from the bustle, quiet and warm, the table between you still faintly scattered with crumbs from the croissants you’d split earlier. You responded in between sips of your latte. “Groceries, laundry… thinking of stopping by the bookstore later.”

John huffed softly, a low breath of amusement more than a real laugh. “Wild Saturday,” he teased, one brow arching as the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You sipped again and eyed him over the rim of your cup. He was dressed down today—grey hoodie layered under a jacket, relaxed jeans, hands calloused and resting comfortably in front of him on the table. He looked soft in the morning light, somehow more approachable than usual, even with the usual guarded weight in his eyes. Shrugging in response, laughed softly. “What about you? Anything planned?”

He shook his head, slow and deliberate. “Nah. Might hit the gym later. Rest up.” He paused, then added almost absently, “Maybe pick up a few things. Don’t think I’ve done proper groceries in weeks.”

You gave him a look. “That’s not surprising.”

He smirked faintly, eyes flicking toward the window as he spoke. “Yeah, well… eating like a human being is still a work in progress.”

Your gaze followed his to the street outside. The view was a quiet one—slow foot traffic, the occasional dog tugging at a leash, a toddler wrapped in layers toddling past with a leaf clutched in one mittened hand. Your fingers curled tighter around your cup, the warmth of it seeping into your palms.

“It’s… nice, you know,” you said softly, your voice barely louder than the background music playing overhead.

You took another sip of your latte, as your eyes flickered to the outside view as well, the warmth of both settling through you before glancing at him again. “It’s… nice, you know.”

“What is?”

You gestured between you with a small smile. “This. Coffee. Quiet morning.”

John didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked over your face slowly, studying you—not just looking, but noticing. The way your lashes caught the light. The subtle curve of your lips. The comfort in your posture. His gaze dipped, lingered for a heartbeat too long at your mouth before returning to meet your eyes again. He studied you for a long moment, eyes flicking over your face, lingering at your mouth before returning to your eyes. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It is.”

You smiled, warmth blooming behind your ribs, something soft and grateful stirring inside you.The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt necessary. Like the two of you were allowed to just be for a while, without filling the space with noise. Outside, a group of teenagers passed by laughing. A cyclist coasted down the lane, scarf fluttering behind him like a streamer. Somewhere, someone was walking a dog in a tiny sweater far too serious for its size. Every now and then, your knees brushed beneath the table. Neither of you moved away.

Each time, it was like a soft little jolt—a reminder of his nearness, of how close he really was. Of how, despite the quiet and the slow pace, your heart was beating just a little faster than normal.

Eventually, your cups sat empty between you.

He stood first, stretching slightly, reaching for both of your cups without a word. He tossed them in the bin near the counter before returning, offering you his hand in that unassuming way of his—no ceremony, just solid. His palm was warm and a little rough, fingers curling easily around yours as he helped you up with that quiet steadiness you’d come to expect from him.

“Come on,” he murmured, holding the door for you as the bell chimed softly overhead. “Let’s get you back before the world wakes up and ruins the quiet.”

You stepped out into the brisk autumn morning, the air biting gently at your cheeks. Your scarf trailed behind you in the breeze, catching in the wind before you tugged it a little tighter around your neck. And as you walked side by side, his arm occasionally brushing yours, the sounds of the city still hushed and muted around you, you felt it again—that rare, grounding warmth that didn’t come from coffee or sweaters or sun through a café window. It came from him. From this.

From the way he looked at you like something precious in a too-loud world.

And your heart felt full in a way it hadn’t in a very, very long time.

.

Chapter Text

You were buzzing until the next morning after your coffee… excursion with John. He was a gentleman, buying your coffee, walking you there and back, holding the door open for you. Yet, when you reached your front door, he simply offered you a smile before he returned home. Or what, kiss you in front of Ruth’s door? You tried to tell yourself as you closed the door glumly. But a part of you wouldn't have even cared - you had no issues with the world knowing that you kissed him. Not one bit.

Later that Sunday afternoon while curled up with a book on the couch before cooking dinner, your reading was interrupted by the ping of your cellphone. A new message.

Hey, I’m back in the city for a few days—work stuff. Want to grab dinner tonight and catch up?

You blinked, surprised. Dan was an old friend from university—charming, a little irreverent, always full of jokes. While he lived in a completely different area now, a few of you would often meet up a couple times a year if they were ever in town. He was back in the city for work and wanted to catch-up. You hadn’t thought much of it – he’d always been kind, teasing and easy-going, the type of friend who drifted in and out of your life without complication.

Your thumbs hovered for a second before you replied.

Sure, sounds good. Let me know when and where.

You didn’t think too hard about it. It was dinner, nothing more—just a chance to catch up. But as you set your phone back down and glanced toward the hallway, you couldn’t help the subtle shift in your chest.The thought of John flickered uninvited in your mind again—his quiet gaze, the rasp of his voice, the warmth of his hand when he helped you up from the café table.

It wasn’t a date, you told yourself.

But when you slipped into your dress a few minutes later– a black knit that hugged lightly at your waist – and touched up your makeup from earlier you realised with a faint, uneasy flutter in your stomach that it felt different. Like a date, even if neither of you had said the word out loud. It’s not going to be a date. Besides, you’re not even technically dating John. You hadn’t even kissed. Despite your self-reassurances, a small pit in your stomach grew.

Whatever, you already said yes. It’s a Sunday, you can easily just leave early.

You stepped out into the hallway, stuffing a few items into your small purse, your coat draped over your arm. As you locked your door, you heard the low creak of another door opening. Turning, you saw John step out of the elevator, wearing dark joggers and a fitted grey long-sleeve shirt that clung to the broad lines of his frame. But it wasn’t his relaxed posture or disheveled charm that made your breath catch - it was the way his eyes landed on you. They dragged down, starting at the heels of your shoes, up your legs, pausing briefly on the sway of the dress that hugged your figure. His gaze lifted to your face, lingering a fraction longer than it should have, where soft curls framed your features. And in that stillness, something passed between you. Something sharp and quiet and unspoken.

His expression didn’t change much, but the flicker was there. Surprise, definitely. Something else too. Something guarded and unreadable, like a door being closed before you could peek inside. You swallowed against the knot forming at the base of your throat.

“Evening,” he said finally, his voice low and slightly rough, as though he hadn’t used it in hours. He slipped his keys into his pocket, his gaze cool and steady. “Off somewhere nice?”

Your heart thudded in your chest, loud and awkward. “Just… catching up with an old friend.”

Even to your own ears, it sounded off. Flat. Like a lie, or at least a half-truth. You saw it register in the slight twitch of his brow.

Still, he nodded slowly. “Enjoy yourself,” he said, voice calm, polite. Maybe a little too polite.

“Thanks.” You clutched your coat a little tighter, suddenly aware of the chill that had nothing to do with the air.

As you walked toward the elevator, you didn’t dare look back, but you felt his eyes on you all the same, burning between your shoulder blades like a weight you carried with every step. Only when you rounded the corner did you finally exhale. The elevator doors closed with a soft hiss, and your eyes fluttered shut, regret blooming hard in your chest.

You hadn’t even realized how much you’d wanted him to ask. To say don’t go. To tease you gently or throw out a casual, “Sounds like competition.” Anything that gave you permission to admit the truth—that you weren’t really interested in dinner with Dan. A part of you wanted to run out of the elevator back to his apartment, and tell him that you weren’t on a real date, that you would have much rather spent the evening playing cards with him again.

But you didn’t.

-------

The dinner itself felt… off.

Dan had met you downstairs in the lobby with that same familiar grin he’d always had in school - easy, boyish, and confident in a way that used to make people gravitate to him. He’d been warm, talkative, regaling you with stories about his latest consulting gigs overseas and the cultural mishaps that came with them. And for a while, you even let yourself relax, smiling at the familiarity of it all. Maybe this wasn't a bad decision after all.

But that hopeful sentiment didn’t last long.

There was something in the way his eyes lingered on you, just a beat too long over the rims of your wine glasses. Something about the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, like he was waiting for something. Some kind of cue from you to let him proceed further. You became acutely aware of yourself - how you laughed, how you crossed your legs, even how you held your fork. It was like suddenly being watched through the wrong kind of lens, where every friendly gesture might be misread, every word twisted into a flirtation that was oh, so unwanted. You found yourself hedging more and more, deliberately vague, keeping your tone neutral and your smile tight. This honestly felt less like dinner with a friend and more like a prolonged customer service shift, your behaviour becoming polite, practiced, exhausting.

“So,” you said eventually, reaching for your water glass to give yourself something to do. “Were Matt and Kirsten not around tonight?”

Dan hesitated, swirling the wine in his glass, eyes flicking away from yours. “I didn’t ask,” he said casually. “Figured we could spend some… quality time together.”

Your fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of your glass.

Ah. So it was a date. At least in his mind. Fuck.

The realization landed like a quiet thud in your chest, leaving you with an unpleasant and cold chill through your chest, your stomach churning from the confirmation. You offered a stiff smile, leaning back just slightly. “That’s… thoughtful of you,” you said gently, before steering the conversation toward the most mundane topics you could think of. How the garbage chute in your building had been backed up for two days. How your oat milk expired early and clumped in your morning coffee. How your laundry machine made that weird knocking noise when it spun too fast.

Anything to make you sound boring. Unavailable. Uninterested. Platonic.

For a brief second, you considered saying it outright, bringing up John. Just casually dropping his name into conversation.

But what would you even say?

Sorry, I’ve got a tall, brooding neighbour with a sharp jaw and unreadable eyes, and for some reason I’ve been thinking about the way his voice dipped when he told me to enjoy my evening? Sorry, Dan. Can’t flirt tonight, there’s this quiet and mysterious man who leaves guns laying around his house who fixed my Wi-Fi and sat with me through a storm and now I’m emotionally unavailable?

No. That would sound ridiculous. Because nothing had happened. Not really.

And yet… something had. Enough to make you feel strangely disloyal just sitting here. Enough to make you feel like you should’ve said no to this dinner the moment you saw Dan’s name light up your screen. You tuned back in as Dan launched into another story, nodding at the appropriate places, smiling when you had to. But your mind wasn’t with him. It was down the hallway, behind a quiet apartment door, where maybe someone else sat in the dark, wondering why he’d let you go without asking more.

And as the evening dragged on, you realized: it didn’t matter whether John ever said it out loud.

You already knew what you wanted.

The rest of the dinner dragged painfully on. You pulled your hand away each time Dan’s edged a little too close. You kept your smile polite but distant, insisting on splitting the bill before he even had a chance to suggest otherwise. Anything to make it clear, that this wasn’t going to happen again. When he offered to walk you home, you declined with a practiced laugh and called an Uber for the barely five-minute ride instead. A waste of money, but better than spending any more unnecessary time with the man. By the time you kicked off your shoes in the front entry of your apartment, your whole body felt weighed down with something heavier than exhaustion. You collapsed onto your bed face-first, mascara smudging into your pillows, and let the room swallow you.

Sleep came quickly, and fitfully. You woke a few hours later with a groggy head and a dry mouth, blinking against the haze clinging to your eyes. What time was it? You fumbled for your phone. 1:36 a.m.

Groaning, you rolled onto your side and sat up slowly, rubbing your temples. Pushing yourself off the bedding, you rubbed your still mascara-coated eyes and yawned. As you started to get up, something froze you in place. You paused, tilting your head to listen. It was blues – slow, heavy, and rich, the kind of music that felt like warm smoke curling low in your chest. You could just make out the twang of the guitar strings, the dragging slide that followed each note, and the quiet gravel of a man’s voice singing about roads and losses and women left behind.

Usually, John wouldn't let it play much longer than when you normally went to bed. Enough for you to hear a few songs before it faded into silence and you’d drift off to sleep. But tonight… it hadn’t stopped. You sat in place for a few moments as the music rumbled softly. Song after song, slow and weary, each one blending into the next like a confessional you weren’t meant to hear.

You sat motionless, listening.

A knot formed in your chest, tightening with every passing minute. You thought back to earlier that evening, the way he’d looked at you in the hallway – eyes flicking over your dress, jaw clenched, mouth set in that tight line you were beginning to recognise as something he wore when he was trying not to feel. Your chest ached with quiet guilt, confusion blooming alongside it. It hadn’t even been a date, not really. And yet… something in his eyes told you he’d thought otherwise.

Closing your eyes, listening to the mournful notes bleeding through the thin wall. Each chord seemed to vibrate against your ribs, heavy and thick with an emotion you couldn’t name. Part of you wanted to knock softly on his door, just to see him, to tell him it hadn’t meant anything. That you hadn’t wanted it to.
But instead, you lay there, silent in the darkness, letting the blues wash over you in slow, aching waves. And as the music played on into the early hours of morning, you wondered if he knew you were listening – and if that was exactly why he hadn’t stopped.

--------

You stepped out of your apartment the following morning, though with significantly less pep than usual. As the door clicked shut behind you, you spotted Ruth standing just outside hers, rummaging through a cavernous purse with theatrical deliberation. She glanced up, eyes bright behind her thick glasses, and you immediately knew she was waiting for you to exit. She really has no shame does she?

“Good morning, dear!” she chirped, then lowered her voice conspiratorially as she did quick check of the halls for any eavesdroppers. The irony. “I saw you all dressed up last night. Off on a date, were you?”

Your cheeks burned hot as you hastily locked the front door. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t really a date, just catching up with someone.”

Her eyebrows rose high, her small but somehow commanding frame stepping in front of you to try to block your path so you could answer. She stepped half into your path, clearly determined to extract more. “Mmm,” she said, lips pursed in a knowing little smirk. “Well, it looked like a date to me.”

You offered her a thin, polite smile, but she was already turning back toward her door.

“Too bad for him, though,” she added with self-satisfied chime over her shoulder, shuffling back into her over-decorated apartment.

You stood there a second longer, mildly unsettled, then turned to make your way down the hall -

Click.

The soft sound of a door closing behind you made you pause. You turned slightly, already knowing, heart skipping a beat in your chest from the noise. John was just stepping out of his apartment, his normally sparkling eyes met yours across the hallway, though instead there were faint shadows tucked beneath them. He looked like he hadn’t slept much—less bright, somehow dimmed. Still sharp, still calm, but…searching for something in your face, though you weren’t quite sure what.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, his voice low and gruff.

You hesitated. “Morning.”

The silence stretched, full of all the things neither of you had said. Your pulse thrummed in your ears. You could feel the tension in the air, subtle but heavy, humming between you like a taut wire. He didn’t ask about your night, and you didn’t offer it. What could you have possibly said to the man anyway? Any mentions of the evening made it seem like you wanted John's approval - even if you desperately did. But when you glanced up at him, his blue eyes were unreadable, his jaw tight under the edge of his beard. For a second, you thought he may bring it up himself, your eyes catching how the muscles in his jaw moved, his lips parting slightly, how his shoulders rolled back.

Then he gave a small nod and walked past you toward the elevator, fingers clenching around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.

And just like that, he was gone, entering the doors before you could even take the next step. As the two of you waited to reach the car park, you felt the quiet distance settle into your chest, an ache blooming there that you couldn’t quite name. Because he wasn’t yours, and you weren’t his. So surely there was no reason for him to be... jealous.

Despite that, it felt like something important had shifted all the same. But you didn't know whether it was good or not.

------

John sat at his kitchen table in silence that night, the room lit only by the small lamp near the window. His tea had long gone cold in his mug, untouched since he poured it. Outside, the streetlights flickered in the drizzle, rain streaking down the glass in thin silver lines. It was another rainy evening, though there was no chance of a storm—no excuse to knock on her door again, no reason to show up uninvited with a lantern and some half-hearted comment about the power flickering.

No reason to be near her.

He leaned back in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, shoulders rounded as he let his head tilt back against the wooden frame behind him. His eyes were unfocused, fixed on a dark patch of wood on the floorboards, but all he could see was her.

The way she’d looked last night – hair curled softly around her face, that black dress hugging her frame in quiet, effortless elegance. The curve of her mouth when she smiled, tired but careful. Controlled. And that blush… that brief flicker of hesitation when she said where she was headed.

Just catching up with an old friend. Her voice was light but her eyes not quite meeting his.

John had told himself it was nothing. That he had no right to think otherwise. He'd wanted to believe it. Had told himself - ordered himself - not to think anything of it. That he didn’t have the right to be feeling whatever he was feeling right now. That whatever lived in his chest when he looked at her had nowhere to go and no reason to stay.

But then Ruth had ambushed him by the mailboxes this morning, tone smug, her words laced with knowing.

“Lovely seeing her all dressed up last night, wasn’t it?” Ruth had said with that conspiratorial gleam in her eye. “Young man came to pick her up, didn’t he? So sweet. I didn’t see her coming home last night either.”

John had forced a small, polite smile, nodding without answering. But inside, something heavy and painful twisted low in his gut. He wasn’t hers. She wasn’t his. That was the truth. And yet…He reached for the mug but didn’t drink, fingers curling around ceramic for the warmth alone. He didn’t know what he’d expected—that she wouldn’t date? That she wouldn’t move on from whatever invisible thing had started quietly threading between them?

Maybe she hadn’t even seen it. Maybe she didn’t feel it.

Or maybe she had. And chose not to.

John exhaled slowly, chest heavy, gaze falling to the silent record player in the corner. He didn’t put on music tonight. Didn’t have the heart for it.Instead, he sat in the quiet, listening to the rain tick softly against the windows, and tried - unsuccessfully - not to wish she was on the other side of the wall, listening too. His jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath his beard as he exhaled slowly. He could still see her in his mind – the soft sway of her hair against her shoulders as she walked down the hall, the quiet scent of her delicate perfume drifting back to him, warm and clean and familiar. Part of him burned to know how the night had gone. Whether that old friend had touched her hair, kissed her cheek, made her smile the way she smiled when she teased him about his coffee habits or his grumpy morning face. Whether or not she had actually gone home with him.

He raked a hand through his hair, fingers digging briefly into his scalp as he closed his eyes.

It was none of John's business. He hadn't even taken her gone on a proper date. Hell, they hadn’t even hugged yet.

He told himself that over and over, until the words lost meaning.The realization didn’t come with fire or fury—just a kind of stillness. A certainty that settled into his bones and refused to move.

None of his business.

And yet, when he opened his eyes to stare out at the rain once more, a quiet, dangerous thought curled low in his chest like smoke:

I don’t want to see her like that for someone else again.

The realization didn’t come with fire or fury—just a kind of stillness. A certainty that settled into his bones and refused to move. He kept telling himself this wasn't jealousy. Not exactly. He didn’t have the right for that. But there was something brutal in the way it felt to watch her walk away, knowing some other man got to see her laugh across candlelight. But what if she didn't feel the same?

What if she did, and he couldn’t give her the kind of life she deserved?

He shifted forward in the chair, elbows resting on the table now, his palms rubbing slowly over his face before sliding down to his jaw. Rain tapped against the windows like it was asking something of him—something he didn’t know how to give. He didn’t want to rush her. Or spook her. Or turn whatever fragile, growing thing they had into a burden or some kind of compulsory commitment that she was too kind to reject.

But he couldn’t keep pretending, either. Not now.

Maybe it was time to stop waiting for a storm.

.

Chapter Text

Goddamn Ruth.

Though you obviously didn’t have any direct confirmation of anything, it was a sure fact that the meddling woman had shared your evening with John - probably exaggerating details to make it seem more juicy than it was, and decide to push the two of you apart for no reason. Even though you had half a mind to storm across the hall and demand to know what she told him, was it really all her fault? You did go to dinner with a man, had dressed up for it, and even ignored your gut feeling not to go in the first place. So the fact that it was clearly causing… something between you and John wasn’t necessarily all Ruth’s fault.

But now what?

How do you begin to discuss this with the man who wasn’t even your boyfriend, without sounding like an idiot?

The next day rolled by agonizingly slowly. Every minute at work dragged by, and you almost dreaded passing John in the hall. His normally sparking blue eyes now seemed dull. Melancholic. Tired. Big smiles were swapped for polite, solemn nods and your plentiful chatter dimmed to simple small talk. You wracked your brain for some kind of solution - could you bring over another baked good? Maybe invite him to your place for coffee? But nothing seemed organic - all too forced. Perhaps it was better to just let things happen naturally, a bump in the road for… whatever the two of you were.

You hadn’t planned to see him that night. It was late, nearly 9 p.m., and you’d only run down to the drugstore two blocks over to pick up toothpaste and a few snacks for your well-deserved weeknight television binge, too dejected to even think about going out with friends. It was lame to sit around moping about the situation you put yourself in, but you couldn’t help it. The crisp air bit at your cheeks as you hurried back inside, juggling the small bag, your phone and keys in your pocketed hands as you headed up the elevator.

Except when you reached your door, your heart sank.

Your keys weren’t there.

You dug through your coat pockets, checked your bag twice, even dumped the contents out onto the hallway carpet. Nothing. The realization sank like cold lead into your stomach.

“Shit,” you whispered, rubbing the bridge of your nose with a trembling hand. You’d left them sitting on the small dish by your door – inside your locked apartment. Those stupid extra-secure doors that auto-locked behind you, leaving you completely stranded in the hallway. Now what?

Only one of your friends had a spare key, and she was currently across the city - even if she was able to make it all the way over to bring the spare, it would be at least a couple of hours. Do you get a hotel? Was the superintendent even on-call? What do you do now? You were about to pull out your phone to call building security when you heard a door open behind you, making your heart sink even further into your chest.

John stepped out into the hallway in navy joggers and a black t-shirt that clung lightly to his chest and shoulders, emphasizing how unfairly good he looked in the simplest of things. His hair was slightly tousled, beard shadowing strong lines of his jaw. He stopped short when he saw you—his eyes flicking over your tense posture, the spilled contents of your bag on the carpet, and finally settling on your concerned face.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low and rough with concern, more kindness than you probably deserved.

You swallowed hard, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “I… locked myself out. Left my keys inside like a complete idiot.”

One corner of his mouth twitched faintly, but his eyes remained gentle. He stepped closer, crouching down beside you to help gather your things that were now strewn across the hallway in your frantic search for your keys. His large hands brushed yours as he placed your things back into the bag gently. The quiet, practical intimacy of it sent a strange flutter through your chest.

“Did you call security?” he asked, standing again and looking down at you with his brow slightly furrowed.

“Not yet,” you murmured, standing to face him. “I was about to.”

He paused, studying your face for a long moment, his eyes searching yours in the dim light of the hallway. Then he tilted his head toward his apartment.

“Come on. It’s cold out here. You can wait in mine.”

You hesitated only a second before nodding, a small wave of relief flowing through you as you wondered if he really was upset with you after all. He stepped aside, letting you enter first. Still a gentleman. Still him. His apartment smelled warm and faintly smoky, like black coffee, leather, and the ghost of his cologne clinging to the air. Despite being in his apartment so rarely, the warm scents felt incredibly familiar. Reassuring.

“Sit down,” he said quietly, gesturing to the worn leather armchair by the window as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call down for you.”

“Thank you.” You quietly responded as you sank into the chair, hugging your bag against your chest, your heart thudding with nervous tension as you watched. As he spoke quietly into the phone, his voice low and calm, you watched the way his free hand rubbed lightly at his jaw, thumb running along his beard as he listened. It was the most mundane task, yet you couldn’t help but be captivated by him. There was something about him that just screamed protector. Shaky ground and unknown relations aside, it was second nature for him to stop whatever he was doing just to help you.

When he hung up, he glanced back at you, his eyes softer now. “They’ll be up in about five minutes.”

You let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh, sinking further into the chair. “God, I feel so stupid. I should’ve just called right away instead of having a full-on meltdown in the hallway.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with mock suspicion. “You’ve had a full-blown meltdown in the hallway over your keys?”

His lips twitched again. “Well,” he drawled, “maybe not a meltdown. But I’ve definitely stood out there swearing under my breath like an idiot.”

You smirked, relaxing a little more in your seat. “That actually makes me feel better.”

John nodded once, the smile softening at the corners of his mouth. “Good. Then it was worth it." He drummed his fingers idly against the edge of the counter, the quiet sound filling the space between you. His eyes—still that unreadable shade of blue—lingered on your face with something like concern flickering beneath the surface. “Long day?” he asked, voice low and careful, as if he wasn’t just asking about your schedule.

“Yeah. I guess. Just… errands. Work emails. Drugstore run,” you said, shrugging lightly. Then, before you could stop yourself, you added, “You?”

He held your gaze, something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “Quiet one. Didn’t feel like going out.”

You nodded, fingers curling tightly around your bag strap. The memory of his music from a few nights before drifted unbidden through your mind – the slow ache of it still humming under your ribs.

“Your music,” you blurted, cheeks warming. “I, uh… heard it Sunday night. Most of the night. It was… beautiful.”

His eyes flicked away, jaw shifting slightly, as if weighing his response. Then he met your gaze again, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than before—gentler.

“Wasn’t meant to be beautiful,” he murmured. “But… thank you.”

“Oh.” Should you say something about Dan? Before you could even consider whether or not it was a good idea, the words tumbled out of your mouth. “It was… fitting. I didn’t have the best night, so it kind of… matched.”

“No?” His eyebrow raised, a glint in his eye that read as curiosity, his facial muscles twitching as he seemed to be wrestling with his own emotions, trying to settle on neutrality.

You shook your head, lips pressing together before you added, “I thought it was just catching up with an old friend. But… he had other ideas.”

John’s posture stiffened immediately, shoulders squaring under the broad weight of his frame. You could see the subtle shift ripple through his body – the way his spine straightened, neck muscles tightening as though bracing against an unseen impact. Though his voice remained calm when he finally spoke – low and gravelled with that familiar steel beneath – there was a tightness in it, like each word was measured carefully.

“Did he—” he paused, searching for the right words, his brow drawn as your head cocked, unsure of what exactly he was about to ask. “He didn’t… do anything, did he? To hurt you?”

Your eyes widened a little as you quickly shook your head. “No. No, nothing like that. He was just a little sneaky—tried to turn it into an impromptu date. But it didn’t go anywhere. No harm done.”

“I see.” His shoulders lowered by a fraction, the tense line of his neck easing as he exhaled a slow, controlled breath through his nose. The muscle at his jaw stopped ticking, and his lips parted slightly, loosening from the tight line they’d formed. His eyes softened, the sharp intensity in them fading just enough to reveal a flicker of relief behind the blue. A quiet huff of breath left him – not quite a sigh, but the faintest release of tension. He rolled his shoulders back once, subtly, as if shaking off the worst of it, and when he spoke again, his voice, though still low and rough, held a calmer steadiness.

“Right,” he said, nodding once. A flicker of something like a smile ghosted across his lips. “That’s… better. I mean—not good. But I’m glad.”

Something warm and aching bloomed quietly in your chest. Relief, yes, but also… something tender. Protective. You hadn’t realised just how deeply you’d felt his tension until it lifted, and in its place was a quiet rush of emotion that made your heart clench. You swallowed hard, your throat feeling tight, and let out a small, shaky breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding.

But before you could reply, there was a knock at the door. He pushed away from the counter, opening it for building security to let you back into your apartment. As you gathered your things to leave, he stepped closer, his voice low and almost hesitant.

“Next time,” he said, his blue eyes locked on yours, “just knock here first. You’re always welcome.”

“Thank you.” You replied with a nod and a smile, slightly disappointed your time together was cut so short. But before you reached the door, he called your name.

“Hold on.” John held up a finger as he rummaged through his kitchen drawers, scrawling something on a post-it note and handed it to you. “If anything ever comes up - just text me, okay?”

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling tight, and let out a small, shaky breath as you accepted it gingerly, careful not to smudge the writing with your damp fingers.

“I will.” You vowed, smiling brighter at him as you walked back to your apartment, heart pounding so hard you could barely breathe, as you realised that for the first time in a long while… home didn’t feel like just the apartment behind your locked door. You closed your apartment door softly behind you, leaning back against it with a quiet exhale. The room was dark, lit only by the soft glow of the city lights filtering through your curtains, casting silver shadows across the floor.

For a long moment, you just stood there, your bag still clutched to your chest, your pulse thudding heavy and warm under your skin.

Next time, just knock here first. You’re always welcome.

His voice replayed in your mind, deep and rough-edged but quiet, almost hesitant, as though he wasn’t used to saying words like that out loud. You slipped off your shoes, moving through the dark apartment in a daze, still clutching the post-it note like it was the most precious thing in the world. As you placed your bag on the kitchen counter, your fingers still tingled faintly from where they’d brushed his as he helped you gather your things. Your chest felt tight and hot, your heart beating a little too fast as you thought about the way he’d looked at you – his blue eyes steady and guarded, but warm, almost… tender.

You curled up on the end of your couch, quickly entering his number into your phone. Through the thin wall you could hear faint sounds from his apartment – the low clink of glass, the quiet scrape of a chair, then nothing at all. Silence. It felt almost too quiet now, the kind of quiet that made your chest ache with something you didn’t want to name. You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the cushion, his words echoing again and again through your mind.

You’re always welcome.

The thought of him alone in his apartment, sitting at his table or standing by the window with a whiskey in his hand, made your stomach twist softly with longing. You didn’t know what this was between you – these small moments that burned brighter than they should, these quiet gestures that felt like secrets. All you knew was that with each passing day, the idea of knocking on his door didn’t feel like an emergency plan anymore. It felt… right. Like something you were meant to do.

You stared at the newly entered contact in your phone for a few moments, deciding what to do. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you fired off a quick text.

Hey, it’s me.

Thanks again for tonight - you’re a lifesaver.

A few minutes pass. Nothing.

Lips twitching from the silence, you haul yourself off to the bathroom to get unready for the evening. Just give the man a minute. He’s like forty, he’s not glued to his phone. You left in your room to not be tempted to glance at it every other second as you did your nightly routine, but the thought of him buzzed through your mind on a nonstop loop. As you re-entered your bedroom and picked up your phone again, you were delighted to see a response.

“Anytime. It’s what neighbours do.”

Neighbours.

You were neighbours, of course. But you still hoped that, somehow, someday it would evolve into something else entirely. Something beyond just two people who happen to cohabitate in the same building. But this was a step.

—----------

Another two days pass on. The two of you texted idly here and there, nothing beyond a few sentences at the most, but at least your communication wasn’t limited to the confines of the length of the hallway or an elevator ride. No romantic confessions (at least not quite yet) but every check-in and chat was warm and friendly. As you reviewed your calendar for work that week, you realized that it was just a few days away from Halloween - an old favourite holiday.

Hey! Just a heads-up that you will definitely get trick or treaters this year, so be sure to have some candy prepped. Otherwise, an army of angry, hungry toddlers WILL break down your door.

His response in return made you giggle.

That sounds scarier than anything I've done for work. I’ll grab some chocolate bars this week - thanks.

Tapping your fingers on your desk as you worked, your mind kept circling back to Halloween. The two of you hadn’t really spent much time together since you drank whiskey and played cards that one evening, and this seemed like the perfect excuse. After doing a quick look around to make sure no one caught you texting away during an admin block, you shot another message.

I already have plenty actually - you’re more than welcome to joint hand out at my place. We can just put a sign on your door that they’ll get double at my place.

I’d appreciate that. I’ll be there at 5?

Biting your lip as you finalized the plans, you couldn’t feel but feel a shudder of excitement at the thought of spending another evening with the man - even if it would be interrupted by the screaming children.

—--------------

You’d been running around the apartment all Friday afternoon, hanging the last of your paper bats and lighting the pumpkin candle in your window. Though no children would be actually coming into your home, you thought it would be cute for John. As you straightened your makeshift outfit of cat ears you’d found in your storage you heard a knock on your own door. You opened it to find John standing there, leaning slightly against the frame. He was in his usual jeans and olive henley, sleeves pushed up to reveal the strong lines of his forearms. But in his hand, he held a large black bowl filled with candy, and perched on top of his head was a cheap policeman’s hat– clearly one of those last-minute impulse purchases from the dollar store.

You burst out laughing, your chest warm with delight. “You look… terrifying.”

He rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched faintly, fighting a smile as he stepped in. “Yeah, yeah. Made do with what I could find.”

“Oh you brought extra candy!” You smiled at the overflowing bowl filled with candy as you shut the door.

“Had to make a good first impression with the most important residents.” John gave you a wink as he set the bowl down on the counter, but just as the lip touched the granite, a soft knocking was heard. You exchanged a quick, amused look before moving to open it together, both plastering on exaggeratedly cheerful smiles. Standing on the welcome mat was a tiny fairy - complete with glittering wings, a crooked tiara, and a pink wand clutched in her mittened hand. She blinked up at you both with big eyes and a gap-toothed smile.

“Trick or treat!” she squeaked and you couldn't even try to hide the smile that crept on your face.

The knocks came in waves after that - sporadic but steady - as the hallway filled with rustling costumes, echoing giggles, and the occasional plastic pumpkin thumping against the wall. You and John made a game of it, slipping back to sip on the glasses of whiskey you’d hidden just out of sight, faces flushed and eyes brighter with each cheerful interruption.
Each time the elevator dinged open or little footsteps pattered down the stairs, you both straightened with playful solemnity to greet the children.

“Take two, mate,” John rumbled to a tiny vampire with a plastic cape, his voice warm and gravelled as he tilted the bowl forward. “Leave some for the others, yeah?”

“Thank you, mister!” the boy squeaked before dashing away.

You stifled a laugh. “You’re good at this.”

He gave a quiet huff of amusement. “Never thought I’d spend Halloween like this.”

“Like what?”

His eyes flicked over your face before turning back to the dim hallway that was alive with chatter and cheers, lips curling faintly under his beard. “Like this. Just… peaceful. Normal.”

Your chest tightened with quiet warmth at his words. It really was peaceful, even with the barrage of noises and knocks. It was domestic, the two of you standing side by side in the doorway, shoulders pressed together to both fit as you dropped pieces of candy into the bowls of grinning children. Between visits, the apartment glowed warm with laughter and soft music playing in the background, the two of you stealing glances over the rim of your glasses and sharing quiet moments between candy runs. The bowl was steadily emptying, but the night—light and golden with mischief—felt fuller than it had in a long time.

At one point, a little girl in a sparkly princess dress paused in front of John, staring up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. She pointed a tiny finger from him to you.

“Are you her daddy?” she asked matter-of-factly.

Your eyes widened as heat rushed to your cheeks. Behind her, her actual father winced and mouthed a silent apology, gently urging her forward to clearly try to get out of the situation as quickly as possible - but John let out a low, warm chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest.

“Not quite, love,” he said, glancing sideways at you, eyes twinkling with mischief. “But thanks for the promotion.”

The girl took her candy and skipped away, leaving you staring down at your hands, trying desperately to hide your smile. When you finally dared to look up at him, his blue eyes were still on you, softer now, a faint warmth flickering there that made your heart flutter painfully in your chest. Kids really did say the darndest things. When you dared to look at him again, John was still watching you—his expression softer now, the corners of his mouth curved in quiet amusement. There was something else there, too, tucked behind the mirth. A flicker of warmth that curled low in your stomach and set your heart fluttering traitorously in your chest.

Later, as the last straggle of trick-or-treaters drifted home, the two of you finally finished your drinks, smiling at each other in between sips as the night fully lulled to a quiet.

“Thanks for helping,” you murmured,

“Anytime,” he whispered, his voice low and rough. And for a fleeting moment, with the scent of chocolate and pumpkin candles lingering in your apartment, you wondered if he could hear how fast your heart was beating – and if his was beating just as hard for you.

“Stay for tea?” you asked softly. Your voice felt small in the quiet of your apartment, but it was steady. Anything to spend even just a little more time with him

He hesitated for a moment, eyes searching yours, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. Would like that.”

You moved around the kitchen, filling the kettle and pulling down your favourite mugs. You could feel his gaze following you, heavy and warm, as he leaned against the counter. He’d taken off the silly plastic hat, leaving his hair slightly mussed, and your chest fluttered at the sight.

“Chamomile okay?” you asked, pouring hot water over the teabags.

“Fine,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and something softer beneath it.

You handed him his mug, fingers brushing his as he took it. That tiny contact sent a quiet jolt through your chest, sparking down your ribs like warmth in winter. He sipped, his eyes closing briefly as he exhaled. The lines on his face softened in the dim kitchen light, shadows flickering across the strong angles of his cheekbones and jaw. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge and the quiet drip of water in the sink.

Finally, you broke the silence with a gentle smile. “Thank you for tonight. I… it was fun. The kids loved you.”

A faint huff of amusement left him as he opened his eyes, meeting your gaze. “Yeah? Thought I scared half of ‘em off.”

You shook your head, smiling wider. “They loved you. Even the princess who promoted you.”

His mouth twitched into a small, crooked smile, but his eyes flickered with something deeper. “Yeah. That was… something.” It really was.

The silence settled again, warm and thick between you. He looked down at his mug, thumb brushing slowly along its handle, before lifting his gaze back to yours.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, voice low and almost hesitant. “For… this. For making it feel like… like a proper home here.”

Your breath caught softly in your chest, your throat tightening around the words you wanted to say. Instead, you reached out, your fingers curling lightly around his forearm where it rested on the counter.

“You’re welcome,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the soft fabric of his sleeve. “Anytime.”

For a moment, his eyes held yours, blue and deep and so full of something unspoken it made your heart ache. Then he shifted slightly, leaning closer, just enough that you could feel the faint warmth of his chest near yours. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes.

But instead of leaning in, he stepped back gently, placing his empty mug in your sink.

“I should let you sleep,” he murmured, his voice rough around the edges.

You nodded, trying to ignore the hollow ache blooming quietly in your chest. “Goodnight, John.”

“Night, love,” he rumbled softly, his eyes lingering on your face one last time before he turned and let himself out, leaving your apartment feeling both emptier and somehow fuller all at once.

Love.

It wasn’t the first time he called you that, but it was the first since the tension of the week dug into roots between the two of you. That night, the blues music only lasted an hour, for once the sound of the smooth notes that trickled through the wall ceasing made you smile against your pillow as you wrapped yourself in your blanket.

Love.