Look, I get it. I’m not everyone’s idea of a great neighbour.

I play music too loud. I game until 4 a.m. with my mic sensitivity cranked to hell. I vape out the window but it somehow still stinks up the hall like Snoop Dogg moved in. I don’t take out the trash on Tuesdays. I don’t say hi in the elevator.

And yeah, I might’ve hotboxed the balcony once. Once. Chill.

But you’d think I was personally committing war crimes the way she reacts. Miss Pristine. Miss Next Door. Miss I-Have-A-Herb-Garden-And-Mindfulness-App-Reminders.

She moved in six weeks ago and declared war on me by week two. First it was a passive-aggressive post-it note on my door:

Some of us have early mornings. —Your neighbour :)

I ignored it. Obviously. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.

Then came the wall knocks. Sharp, pissed-off bangs that made my LED strips flicker. Then a noise complaint. Real mature. Hope it made her feel powerful.

But tonight? Oh no, tonight we leveled up.

Tonight, she full-on banged on my front door. Like I’m her misbehaving toddler. Like she pays my rent. Like she didn’t move into my building, next to my unit, knowing damn well the guy inside streams horror games with a headset mic and a tendency to scream like he’s being waterboarded.

It’s 12:43 a.m.

I’m on stream. Mid-match. Mid-smoke. Headphones on, Red Bull half-finished, lobby full of sweaty twelve-year-olds getting their egos snapped in half. And suddenly — BOOM BOOM BOOM — someone’s trying to cave in my front door.

I thought it was the cops.

Spoiler: it’s worse. It’s her.

I crack the door, still wearing my headset, and there she is standing in the hallway barefoot in a silk robe like she just stepped out of some indie romcom where the girl yells at the boy who makes her feel things she doesn’t want to admit.

God, she’s hot when she’s mad. (She’d stab me for saying that out loud. Probably with a reusable metal straw.)

“Do you ever stop?” she snaps, voice hushed and angry like she’s trying not to wake the whole building. Which is rich, considering she’s the one doing construction-level pounding on my door at 1 a.m.

“…Hey. You forgot to say hi.”

She does that nose-flare thing, which is weirdly sexy. She also ignores me completely.

“You’re literally hotboxing the whole hallway. I can’t even breathe in my room—”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

“Are you serious?” she hisses. “I have work at six in the morning. I asked you, like, four times to just lower your volume and stop smoking out the vents.”

“Wrong. You never asked. You stomped. You wrote notes. You tattled to management.”

She looks ready to launch herself at me. Honestly? I’d let her. I’d probably like it.

Instead, she exhales, crosses her arms tighter, and goes, “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By who? Your Twitch chat?”

“Ouch,” I say. “Low blow. They like me. Mostly.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I swear I hear a vertebrae pop.

I take another slow drag, watching her fume. She’s standing barefoot on the grimy hallway tiles like her rage gave her immunity. The robe’s sliding off her shoulder a little, and I swear I’m trying not to look, but… I mean. I’m still a guy. I’ve got blood. It’s circulating.

“I’ll open a window,” I say, finally. “Not ‘cause you told me to, though. Don’t get cocky.”

“Unbelievable,” she repeats, already turning to leave.

I lean in the doorway, tapping the Saint Michael charm at my neck. “You got a name, or do I just keep calling you ‘neighbour girl with rage issues and oddly specific opinions about incense smoke’?”

She pauses. Doesn’t look back. Then goes, “You really wanna know my name?”

I smirk. “Why, is it something embarrassing?”

She turns her head just enough to flash me a tight little smile. The evil kind. “You’ll hear it when the landlord forwards my next complaint.”

I watch her go. Shut the door. Turn back to the stream.

“Yo,” I mutter into my mike. “Sorry boys. Neighbour intervention. Might’ve gotten yelled at by an angel in a bathrobe.”

Chat erupts. Someone types:

“L + ratio + get her @ rn”

Safe to say I’ll be waiting for that complaint