#thin16walls

You grabbed a towel from the couch and flipped it with a haphazard snap, hips swaying to the music like you were enjoying it and not rushing straight through it just to call it done. You weren’t even really dancing- just restless, antsy. The kind of Sunday afternoon where the orange sunlight poured in like a reminder that your weekend was nearly over, but, strangely, everything felt fresh and hopeful. You didn’t question it. You just moved with it.

Your hair was half-down, slipping out of the elastic you’d thrown in hours ago; a little wild, but not in the cute on-purpose way- more like a manic ‘I have to get shit done’ way. Your socks didn’t match- one with stripes and the other plain white, but that hadn’t mattered when you pulled them on. They were both clean and had the same feel as the other, which is the only thing that really mattered. Your shorts and t-shirt, though, were the only things left in the drawer this morning. Laundry day wasn’t just a vibe. It was a necessity.

🎶 “And I bet we'd both arrive at the same time-

And I bet the thermostat's set at six-nine-

And I bet it's even better than in my head,” 🎶

You sang it without shame this time, your voice soft and sensual in a way no one had heard before- not even you, over the sound of the speakers. 

No one ever came up to this floor. After almost a year of living in this unit, you’ve never once had a neighbor. The unit across the hall had stayed dark and sealed since the day you moved in- some kind of long-term renovation or financial standstill, you weren’t sure which. Didn’t matter. 

It made the space feel like yours. No need to keep quiet. No one to annoy.

🎶 “How you talk so sweet when you're doing bad things-

That's bed chem,” 🎶

You were halfway through your last shirt when the first knock came. You didn’t hear it.

The bass was too thick, Sabrina’s voice tuning out anything other than the tapping of your toes on the floor as you walked your pile of shirts to the basket for transport.

The second knock, though, landed like a gut-punch. Hard and sharp and deliberate. Like a police baton or baseball bat.

You stood perfectly still; hands still hovering over the neatly stacked, folded shirts that had just dropped into the laundry basket- sultry, sexy vocals bouncing off the walls of your old duplex walls.

Another knock didn’t come. That felt worse, somehow.

You blinked, turning your head slightly- like that might help you echolocate the source of the knock- sure that it couldn’t have been a person. Then you moved quickly, snatching your phone from atop the pile of clean clothes and turning the volume down from the ‘warning red’ 10 to an acceptable, if not hollow-sounding 3.

The silence that followed was incredibly too quiet. You could hear your pulse in your ears. In the several moments between the sound you heard and the new void in your space, the song had restarted at a much quieter level- but you didn’t hear another knock.

You shifted on your feet; not stepping toward the door, but recalibrating in your position. If it were the police, they’d surely knock again- announce themselves or something. Your landlord never visits without warning, and she’d know you were there, what with the music. Construction? Could it have been downstairs? No, it sounded targeted.

You make your way to the door, unconsciously raising to your tippies, and peek out of the peephole; immediately flinching when you realize that the sound was a knock on the door and the source of the sound was still standing there.

He was standing close enough to your door that his shoulders took up most of the view; you could only see part of him, arms crossed tight over his chest and a tensed jaw. That was more than enough to set the tone for what was to come. He was waiting. For you.

Shit.

You stepped back, no longer stealthily creeping. The gig is certainly up, and there is a man at your door, undoubtedly pissed about the loud music coming from your apartment. Classic, single girl, sex-positive, loud music that is easy to play on repeat and is only enjoyable to the person enjoying it.

Shit, shit, shit.

After way too long, your hand trembles to the door knob. Then you open the door- halfway- and blink up at him. Much, much bigger not through the lens of a marble. He’s sturdy, you can tell. His arms are… large. One looks like it’s either heavily tatted or may be a prosthetic, though, you intentionally keep your eyes on his- as painful as it feels. They’re sharp, but the lines under them tell you he’s also tired. Very blue- almost clear, like ice. 

You seem to catch him off guard just as much as he did you, as he does a quick, observing flick up and down, immediately reminding you of how unprepared you are for confrontation. Or the strained silence that followed. 

You realize you should have greeted him first, but all the options seemed to fall short; ‘can I help you?’ you already knew the answer to that. ‘Hi, I’m _____,’ he clearly wasn’t here to make friends. 

Well, shit.

“Your music’s been rattling my cabinets for the last half hour,” he starts, because you clearly aren’t. A flush instantly raises from your chest to your cheeks at the confirmation of what you already knew. 

“Oh- my god,” you grimace and reflexively close yourself into the door like a crutch as if to hold up what’s left of your pride, “I didn’t- sorry, I didn’t know anyone lived up here- I thought it was still vacant.”

You swallow hard, a nervous smile twitching at your cheeks as you stand up straighter and lean against your door frame. He’s clearly reassessing his approach- the miniscule shift back and brief eye dart away say clear enough that he didn’t expect it to go this way.

His eyes snap back to yours like he’s chosen to assert himself again, but when he speaks his voice is dimmer. Less adrenaline behind the words. “Yeah. Not vacant anymore.” That makes your brow raise. 

“Right, I get it. I’ll keep it down,” you restate your acknowledgement, omitting the apology this time. He doesn’t leave immediately, instead you see his eyes wander up into your less-than-half-opened door, presumably landing on the pile of clothes on your sofa.

Your eyes narrow up on his and you squeeze your door closed as much as you can while also standing your ground. You’re just about to ask what his deal is when he, still peering into your door- not moving a muscle, speaks again. “Yeah, it was loud, but I’m more caught up on the six-nine.”

You scoff at that, an incredulous smile pulling your lips into a curve despite yourself. Your brows raise and you look away to even your expression before clearing your throat. “Not a Sabrina Carpenter fan, then?” You hadn’t been prepared for the pointed call-out, but it was clear this was a challenge, and you’d be damned if you lost a challenge to this newcomer. 

It’s his turn to laugh, a short exhale from his nose that sounds equal parts contemptuous and teasing, before looking from you to the ground with a slow step back. “Didn’t catch the name. Just the camaraderie.” 

Your mouth opens like you want to throw something back at him, but by the time you’ve even processed the jab, he’s closing his door; leaving you standing in yours with a warm face and very confused nervous system.

After a moment of silence, you slowly reenter your living room and close the door behind you. You turn the music up a few ticks; a middle ground between ‘reasonable’ and ‘fuck you.’ You keep Bed Chem on for a few more plays.

Smartass.

-

Nonetheless, you hadn’t seen or heard from your neighbor since the “Bed Chem” incident. You’d started to wonder if he was even home; in the 3 days since that Sunday afternoon you have gotten up for work, gone to work, come home from work, and stayed in all night- never once hearing any shuffling on his side of the duplex. No cabinet slamming, no TV playing. Either he’s in a coma or he’s just really good at pretending not to exist.

He’s been on your mind, though. The way he confronted you like a brute and then tried to turn it around on you into some kind of cheeky banter. You’d come up with 7 comebacks you could have shot back at him if he’d given you the chance before he maneuvered his way back into his unit like a man on a literal mission.

You’re at the mailboxes at the face of the duplex building, unlocking your unit’s box while you hoist your backpack over one shoulder like your belongings are itching to remove themselves from you the moment you enter your domain. You close the little metal door and lock it in one fluid motion, a stack of envelopes and ring of keys in your fingers as your body works in muscle memory into the quaint entrance and up the first staircase. You’re stopped about half way up the second set of stairs when you see a name that doesn’t belong. 

To: J. Barnes

354 President Street #3F

Brooklyn, NY 11231

You almost smile at that. You don’t recognize the name, but you do recognize the unit number. You keep your eyes on the out-of-place envelope and slow your steps until you get to the top of the stairs, standing in the hall between your doors. Then you turn- sharp right toward his door and knock thrice before you can talk yourself out of it. 

And he answers- fast enough that it feels like a point being made in contrast to how long it took you to come to your door when he issued his unofficial noise complaint. 

The door opens and there he is: silent, still, sturdy.

He doesn't speak first. Fair enough, neither did you. Your turn. 

You match his even gaze and hold up his envelope beside your face so he can read both the handwriting on the paper and the deliberate nonchalance you're trying to project. “J. Barnes?” You blink at him as his eyes flick to the envelope and stay there a moment, like he's considering snatching it from your hand. You have a strong feeling he could. You extend your arm to him before he can try. 

He watches the letter the whole way to him, then looks at you while he takes it. “Yeah.”

A tight, awkward smile stretches your lips as you shift your envelopes into the other hand and start to turn. 

“Volume’s been good,” he says, no intonation in his voice to indicate an emotion. You know this is another challenge, though, the bastard.

You turn back toward him, taking a half step back toward your door- keys in hand. “Quieter,” he adds, lower.

Your eyes narrow and your lip twitches, a wry smile threatening to show face. “That a compliment?” As you listen for his shot, you turn again; your keys find the knob, unlocking the door to your living room. 

“An observation,” he corrects, dry and unbothered. 

You huff a laugh out as you open your door, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You're welcome, John.” And then you close your door first, immediately pressing your eye to the peephole to watch him. 

He stands there, just like he left you last time, and, to your surprise, a low, nearly silent chuckle escapes his lips as he backs up into his living room and closes the door behind him. 

I win this round.

-

By the time you’re out the door and in the stairwell landing, you’ve lost and found all of the things you need for your trip. Some mandatory staff training out of state that no one wants to attend- least of all you who has to be up and out at 4:55 AM for a 6:00 AM bus ride from Brooklyn to Stamford. 

🎧 “I’ve no idea what I am talkin’ about,

I’m trapped in this body and can’t get out,” 🎧

That’s probably why you’re putting no effort into making yourself look or feel socially presentable; hoodie up- not to hide your unkempt hair, but to hide the world from you; backpack barely hanging on your arm as you sling it around to throw your keys into it; and earphones in, blasting something that lets you hate everything without any real reason. Thom Yorke is pretty good at that. The meloncholy rage you feel is the only thing you need to hear at the moment.

You know you’re probably making noise on your way down the stairs, but you can’t hear it- and everyone’s probably still asleep. 

If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, and all that.

You’re about halfway down the stairs to the second floor when you push off the right hand railing to tether yourself to the left for the inevitable turn down the second floor when you collide with brick. Or, it feels like brick. 

Your eyes shoot open and your left earbud falls out and bounces down the last of the steps until it hits the wall. It’s only then, when half of your hearing is brought to the present, that you feel the ‘brick wall’ latching onto your forearm. Sturdy like brick- not a wall.

🎧 “You killed the sound,

Removed backbone,” 🎧

You look up, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but wide with surprise; and meet his gaze- heavy with exhaustion, narrow with alertness. Strange dichotomy.

It takes you another moment to look down and realize it’s his hand gripping your forearm, firm and steady, but cold. Metallic. Strange… You look up at him and blink, then reattach yourself to the right hand side of the staircase railing.

“Shit- sorry,” you mutter, looking down before you cough softly to clear the sleep from your throat.

Before you’re even able to turn to face the earbud that has skittered down to the floor, he’s on his way up with it- still blasting your song, though, it holds a different meaning now.

“Thanks,” you say, soft, but more awake now, taking it clumsily from his two precise fingers and holding it in your fist. 

“Mm,” he nods once, looking down at you. “You headin’ out?”

You suck in a breath as you’re brought back to reality, looking down and away with a nod. “Staff thing out of town. Early bus.” 

There’s a silence that follows. No snarky comment to border on teasing, no complaint about how you’re stomping down the stairs and trying to bulldoze through him; nothing but a strange, steady presence. You look up at him after a moment of quiet that stretched too long for comfort, and see him. 

In a matter of miliseconds; your eyes dart from his own- grey under the dim stair lighting- to the tension in his shoulders that scream disciplined readiness, down to the duffel bag over his shoulder, the strap taut across his chest. He clearly notices you noticing him- the hand that held you up twitches as your eyes land on it and immediately gets stuffed into his left jacket pocket. Even the jacket is curious, not military or police- not civilian, either. Durable. Tactical.

“Safe trip,” his voice cuts through the silence and your eyes snap back up at him before you nod and manage a glimpse of a smile. Then, he watches as you step slower down the stairs, almost like he’s making sure you don’t almost fall again, and your eyes meet once- short- before you turn the corner down the next set of stairs.

You take your hood down and keep your earbud out.

🎧 “I've seen it coming,

I've seen it coming” 🎧

-

Phone to her ear, jaw tight, eyes on the pavement. She’s nodding like the person on the other end can see her. 

A short, bitter laugh escapes her and he feels it in his chest like it’s meant for him.

He doesn’t recognize the tone- not from her.

She hangs up just before she reaches the front door, shoving the phone into her coat pocket with more force than necessary. 

Then she exhales hard, like she’s trying to hold something in and it’s slipping anyway.

His hand drops from the window.

He doesn’t think about it. Just moves. He picks up the package of light bulbs he’d meant to swap out in the hallway fixture since Sunday and heads for the stairs. 

Not because he heard her. Not because something about her voice made his pulse shift. Because there were lights to be fixed.

He waits the amount of time he estimates it takes for an angry woman to walk up the stairs to the third floor and opens the door just as she’s reaching for her keys.

She startles a little- clearly hadn’t heard him coming. That tends to be by design. 

“Jesus. You’re quiet.” Her voice is harsh, her cheek is twitched in irritation and it makes him step back into his apartment.

“Bad habit.”

She doesn’t smile, but her shoulders dip just a fraction. He holds the door open without stepping back out, blinking at her longer than either of them are comfortable with.

“You okay?”

She can tell he knows she isn’t, he can see it in the bristle of her nerves as she straightens back up and sticks her key in the knob.

“Yeah,” she says, too quickly. Then, softer, almost like an apology: “Long day.”

She doesn’t look at his hands as he steps out, isn’t curious about his daytime presence, doesn’t even throw out a J name for the hell of it. 

He watches as she steps into her apartment, and closes her door.

-

“I am going out to see what I can sow,”

You expect to step out into the late September evening with a fresh breath of air, your music adding to the ambience, but instead what you find is him coming up the steps to the door- hood down, jacket loose over a dark hoodie. Something is slung over his shoulder- heavier than a messenger bag, lighter than the duffel you’ve seen before. 

You stop short, and so does he, and neither of you speak for a moment.

“And I don't know where I’ll go,

and I don't know what I’ll see,

but I’ll try not to bring it back home with me.”

Your eyes catch and hold until he breaks first. “You again.” Flat, but not unfriendly- like a sigh caught between annoyance and a smile.

You shrug, lifting the trash bag a little like proof of innocence. “What can I say? I like to make an impression.”

A low hum vibrates the air between you as his gaze flicks to the bag, then back up. “Making one right now.”

The corner of your mouth betrays you before you can stop it. “Glad to know I’m consistent.”

“Like the morning sun your eyes will follow me,

as you watch me wander, curse the powers that be,”

You round him with a little extra sway in your stride, trash bags swinging like pendulums at your side. A sassy pep, deliberate enough to make your point.

The music spills from your phone speaker, loud against the hush of the street. He glances down at it, then back at you, one brow lifting.

“Outwardly invasive,” he says at last, dry as the pavement under his boots. “Bold choice for a shared environment."

You toss a look over your shoulder, grin tugging. “What can I say? Some of us aren’t ghosts.”

For a moment, the air shifts. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer right away, but he doesn’t hide the tug at the corner of his mouth either. Whatever it is- smile, smirk, surrender- it shows before he can bury it.

“Cause all I want is here and now, 

but it’s already been and gone.

Our intentions always last that bit too long.”

You catch it out of the corner of your eye as you reach the trash bin. Before he can say anything, you toss a glance over your shoulder, voice light but sure. “Jasper.”

His head tilts, almost a shake, and the half-smile lingers. “Still wrong.”

You drop the bags in with a satisfying thud, brushing your hands against your hoodie. “Yeah, but I’m getting closer.”

“Not even,” he says, but there’s no bite in it- just the faintest amusement threading through.

When you turn back, he hasn’t gone inside yet. He’s standing there with the front door open, waiting. Not impatient, just… waiting.

You step past him, letting the cool air slip away behind you, and start up the stairs with deliberate speed. Your sneakers squeak against the wood, and by the time you reach the landing you toss the win over your shoulder: “See you later, Jason.”

A huff follows, low and amused. “Two losses in a row. Getting sad.”

You grin as you close your apartment door, the sound of it still catching in your chest.

“In the full moon’s light, I listen to the stream.

And in between the silence, I hear you calling me.

But I don’t know where I am, and I don’t trust who I’ve been.

But if I come home, how will I ever leave?”

-

No judgement.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you, just lifts his eyes slowly from the floor to meet yours.

You hesitate out of courtesy, it seems like you do a good job of invading his personal space nowadays. “Is this… your spot?”

“Shared property,” he says, then tips his head toward the opposite wall. “Plenty of space.”

You sit with a huff, cross-legged, back against the wall across from him. Your glass rests on your knee. It’s quiet for a moment while you decide whether this was a mistake or if you should shoot for another win.

“Apartment heat’s all over the place,” you offer, pulling your phone from the floor to set on your other knee. “Mine thinks it’s mid-January.”

He exhales a short breath through his nose. “Mine thinks I like to sleep in a sauna.”

You smile faintly, sipping your water, and it’s silent again. 

You shift, noticing how he’s looking at the ground with no cell phone in sight. It’s creepy. “How long you been here again?”

“Couple weeks.”

“Still adjusting?”

He shrugs. “Not bad. Quieter than I expected.”

You glance at him, arching a brow. “Except for me?”

That earns a hint of a smirk. “You’ve got your moments.”

You look down into your glass. “You’re not loud,” you say. “Like, at all. I don’t think I’ve heard a single sound from your side of the hall.”

“That’s on purpose,” he says, after a second. “Comes in handy.”

You let out a quiet scoff, tipping your head back against the wall. “Yeah, I bet being a ghost is really helpful in a Brooklyn duplex.”

He doesn’t reply, but there’s something in the way he watches you now- like you’ve said something more honest than you meant to.

You shift your glass in your lap and tilt your head to the side. “You always been this quiet?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You always this curious?”

You laugh this time, quiet, but honest. “Relax, I’m not reporting you.” Your smile stays as you double-tap your phone, and you can see out of the corner of your eye that he’s watching. 

Now who’s curious?

He huffs softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You sure? Looks like classified material to me.” His chin tips toward your phone, casual but deliberate. He’s not leaning, not reaching- just letting you know he noticed.

You glance down, thumb still hovering. The image fills the screen: a white cat, fur like spilled milk, eyes the pale, cool grey of winter light. You’ve kept that photo for years- a small, ridiculous tether to a smaller, ridiculous you.

You can’t help the sound that escapes you: equal parts laugh and scoff. You snort, deflective and a little sharp. “Nosy.”

He lets that land and the corner of his mouth twitches into something almost like a smile. “Curious,” he corrects, voice softer now.

You tip your glass back, the cool water cutting the heat in your chest. “There’s a difference,” you say finally, eyeing him over the rim. “Curious doesn’t get people killed in horror movies. Nosy does.” 

That earns you an actual huff of laughter, quick and low. “Guess I’ll try to stay curious, then.” 

You shrug, setting your glass down beside your thigh. “Good survival instinct.” 

It’s quiet again, but lighter this time. You stretch your legs out into the hall, watching how he doesn’t flinch or shift to reclaim the space. He sits there, steady, glass in hand, like the silence is just another form of talking. 

“So…” you start, glancing at him sideways, “what do you even do with yourself all day? Never see you unless you're sneaking back in in the middle of the night.”

His head tilts, the faintest crease pulling between his brows. “Sneaking?”

You smirk into your glass, unbothered. “Whatever you call it. Looked suspicious, though.”

He shifts his weight against the wall, chin dipping like he’s deciding whether to bite. “You’ve seen me in the laundry room.” His voice is flat, but not sharp. Then, after a beat: “And you handed me my mail.”

You lift your brows, feigning skepticism, but the tilt of your smile gives you away. “Oh sure, the laundry room. And mail delivery. Great alibi.”

That coaxes a ghost of a grin from him, subtle but real. His voice softens. “You were out just as late.”

You lean your head back against the wall, glass balanced in your lap. “No-” you draw it out, eyes narrowing playfully, “I was leaving. You were coming home like you were on a midnight mission. We are not the same.”

For a second, his gaze sharpens, something unreadable crossing his face, like he’s testing the edge of what you mean. Whatever suspicion flickered dies just as quickly as it came. His mouth twitches. “Midnight mission, huh?”

You shrug, loose and easy. “Yeah, I don’t know. You’ve never seen a spy movie? They always do the sneaky stuff at midnight.”

That gets him. Whatever edge had settled in his shoulders dissolves, the tension bleeding out with a quiet huff of air through his nose. His grin, faint but real this time, tugs just a little higher at the corner.

“Guess I’ll take your word for it,” he says, voice low but lighter than before.

You tip your glass to him like it’s a toast. “Better. Means I’d survive the movie. You? Questionable.”

The sound he makes could almost be called a laugh- rough, short-lived, but enough to change the air between you. And it’s in that softened lull, when he shifts his glass from one hand to the other, that his sleeve falls back. The metal catches the dim light- black and gold- and for the first time you see all of it, uncovered.

His left arm.

For a second, you don’t understand what you’re looking at. Then you do. Not with certainty, not completely. Just enough.

It’s beautiful in an uncanny way. Sleek and strange and seamless. Like it belongs and doesn’t, all at once.

You don’t mean to stare. But you do. Until his gaze drops to where yours is focused.

After a moment he glances back down at you with a calm that makes you wonder how often this happens- how often people look, and whether he’s learned to read what kind of person they are based on how long it takes them to look away.

You lift your glass to your lips like a distraction, a silent acknowledgment, maybe even a quiet apology. But you don’t look away in shame. 

You look because it’s beautiful. Unexpected.

Just another piece in the puzzle that is your neighbor that you’re not pressing to solve. You find yourself relaxing into the space between words, shoulders loosened as you double-tap your phone again.

11:17 PM

You finish your water in one last gulp and rise to your feet, ignoring with a small smile how he tracks your movements like a sniper.

You glance at him once more before you open your door, a little playful now. “Night, Julian.”

He blinks, clearly taken aback, and lifts a brow. “Still not close.”

“One day I’m gonna get it.”

“You think so?”

You smirk, stepping into your apartment slow enough to close off the chapter of this conversation. “I’m very persistent.”

“Yeah,” he says after a pause. “I’ve noticed.”

You’re still smiling as you close the door behind you.

-

You freeze in the doorway, but he’s not startled by your appearance. Doesn’t even glance up at first, just finishes sorting something- dark clothes, from the looks of it- into the dryer. Your favorite dryer. 

You take one half-step back, instinctively considering whether you should turn around.

Too late. You hesitate, slowly pulling out one earbud and reaching for the volume button when he finally looks up.

"You again," he says before you can retreat, voice dry but not unkind, then looks down to crank the timer on the dryer.

He shrugs, pressing the start button. "You're not."

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” you reply quickly, repositioning your feet in the doorway like you might run.

You nod once and step inside, moving toward the folding counter and setting your supplies down a little harder than necessary. Not annoyed- just irritated at yourself and tired of holding a work trip’s worth of clothes in a flimsy laundry basket. 

He leans back against the dryer, arms crossed and basket full of his first load of clean- and dried- clothes. You almost smile at the way you can feel his stare at the back of your head as you open the washer and toss your clothes in.

🎧 “Well you can't get what you want,

But you can get me” 🎧

“Is it really a good idea- the music?” he asks, voice even, like it’s an honest question. “You nearly took both of us out the other day.”

You blink, a little caught off guard, causing your response to come a second too late. “Wasn’t planning on charging anyone today,” you say finally, more dry than defensive as you glance over your shoulder at him. “That was a one-time thing.”

He doesn’t reply immediately, but you can see something in his expression shift slightly- something in the corners of his eyes, maybe even his lips. You don’t watch long enough to know for sure, of course; you throw the last of your clothes into the washer and reach for the ‘cold water’ button. Then, after a longer pause, he adds- more like an observation than a tease, “You hum. A lot.”

You pause, sharper this time.

“You probably don’t even notice it,” he adds, a little more casual now. “Through the door. It carries.”

You turn more than half way now, facing him almost directly to narrow your eyes at him- curiously, not suspiciously. “Didn’t think the walls were that thin,” you mutter, half to yourself. “I never hear you... like, ever.” You grimace slightly, like you just caught yourself revealing that you notice his patterns- or lack of them- and turn around to empty your individual packet of detergent into the washer. 

You can see him shrug out of the corner of your eye, his voice lighter. "It’s not bad." You roll your eyes and turn toward him as you close the washer lid. He lets it sit for a second before turning himself to slide his laundry basket down, readying to hoist it and walk. “Better than the six-nine song,” he throws out there like a jab. Or… a playful nudge.

You snort, “You wish you had that kind of chemistry.”

There’s a flicker of a smile on his face. Barely. But you clock it. As your lips twitch themselves into a quietly triumphant smirk, you glance at the clothes in his laundry basket- dark cargo pants, compression shirts, gloves. Not standard gym stuff- you don’t think? You’re not one to judge, though, if the man works out- which he clearly does- he can wear whatever he wants. 

As your eyes move from his basket back up to his eyes, you see something else- his hand. His fingers peak out of the left sleeve of his hoodie, catching your eyes like a magnet. They’re black- like, pitch-black… and gold? Yellow? Shiny. There’s no question whether it’s a prosthetic or not. Definitely not a tattoo.

You blink up at him before you can call it staring. You don’t comment, either. But you notice. It’s clear by the tweak in his brow that he noticed you noticing. 

His eyes narrow just a smidge when he realizes you’re not saying anything about it- like it throws him off more than if you had.

You clear your throat, intentionally casual, turning to gather the trash from your laundry detergent and stick your phone and single earbud into your now-empty laundry basket.

You feel him moving behind you, hear the sound of thin plastic against the metal dryer as he steps closer to the door- on his way out. "Gotta be quicker if you don’t want someone like me claiming the good dryer. Seniority, you know."

You scoff lightly, looking up at him with an incredulous twitch in your cheek. "I've lived here longer than you. I should have seniority."

He half-turns, a distinctly teasing edge to his voice. "That's not what I meant."

You blink, thrown for a moment. ‘Seniority’ sounds like a stretch. What is he, like, 5 years older than you? If that? You almost say something. But he and his, almost refreshingly, smug, smirk are gone before you can even form the question in your mind.

You look down at your clothes. Then at the empty doorway. Then you put your other earbud in and hum.

🎧 “Just looking out for the day,

When you're close to me,

When you're close to me.” 🎧

-

You take a deliberate step to the right, clinging to the right-hand side of the railing in an effort not to charge him like a bull this time around, and continue down the steps. You weren’t expecting to see him, but you also weren’t going to let this pass without something. Some kind of ‘thank you’ for not letting you break your neck down the steps. 

With a poorly suppressed smirk, you pass him in the stairwell, looking down to the last step, and shoot him a quick and easy, “Mornin’, Jeremy.” You smile into your travel mug as you land on the second floor landing, but when you hear nothing, you turn to look up at him as he continues up the stairs. 

He doesn’t turn to look down at you. He doesn’t stop to reciprocate. Not even a grunty half-laugh to acknowledge your existence. Just shifts one envelope to the back of the stack as he nears the top step. 

You track him with your eyes for a second, lips parted like you were prepared for a retort- but it doesn’t come. Your mouth presses into a line. You sip your coffee again instead.

“Okay,” you mutter under your breath. “Cool.”

You head around the corner and leave the duplex without another thought, putting your earbuds in and choosing a song.

-

By the time you get home, the day’s weight has fully settled into the thin skin under your eyes. The sun’s already dipped below the buildings, casting the duplex street in that half-gold, half-blue light that makes everything look- and feel- vaguely unreal.

Your backpack digs into your shoulder as you climb the stairs, and the takeout bag in your hand swings rhythmically with each step. You’re too tired to hope for or dread anything. Just want your couch. Your silence. Maybe something mindless on TV.

You certainly don’t expect to see him again- you’ve almost forgotten he existed until you do. Rounding the sharp corner at the top of the 3rd floor stairwell and slumping to your door, you almost miss him. But there he is, door mostly open, standing in the middle of leaving- to the dumpster, it would seem, what with the trash bag in his right hand. 

You freeze for half a second a few feet from your unit, unsure if you should nod, speak, acknowledge him at all. After this morning? You’re guessing no.

So you keep your eyes forward. No smirk. No teasing name. You move toward your door, reaching blindly into your backpack you’ve since swung to your side, digging for your keys.

“Wasn’t a bad guess,” he says. You pause, half-turn toward him. “Jeremy,” he clarifies, like it matters. “A little modern for me, though.”

Your brows lift before you can stop them. “Modern?” You glance at him now, your fingers finally finding your keys. “Jeremy?” You huff a tired laugh, a little thrown off by the shift- by the fact that he initiated it. You don’t ask why, don’t comment on this morning. Just take the moment for what it is. “Well… I’ll try again tomorrow.”

He tilts his head in a half-shrug, already stepping down the hall to the stairwell, trash in hand. “I’ll be here.”

You unlock your door with a strange lightness in your chest and step inside before you can think too hard about what just happened; you fall asleep before you can eat your takeout.

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