The building was quiet. Too quiet, most days. A relic of concrete and solitude perched in the middle of a city too loud to sleep in. Riley liked it that way—cracks in the drywall, creaky stairwells, neighbors that didn’t ask questions. The only things he needed were locked doors and long silences.

Then she moved in.

Across the hall. Flat 3B. No fanfare. Just the low scrape of furniture being shuffled into place and a few muffled apologies to the movers. He hadn’t seen her that day—just caught the tail end of a boot, a scuffed suitcase wheel, and the hum of a tired voice on the phone.

He didn’t introduce himself. Not right away. Didn’t need to. Time would do that for him.

By day four, they crossed paths outside their doors. She had a satchel slung over her shoulder, hair twisted up like it had been forgotten mid-motion. Tired eyes. No makeup. She didn’t look at him long—just dipped her head, polite. Careful.

He could live with that.

“Morn’in’,” he murmured, voice scratchy from sleep. She blinked once, then gave him a nod. Quiet. Riley felt something in his ribs settle.

The next week, she left the flat at the same time again. This time, she had a Tupperware container in her hand. Didn’t say a word—just held it out, like it was an offering.

He blinked at it, then at her.

“Wha’s this?” he asked, tone a littl’ gruff.

“Lunch.”

She didn’t wait for thanks. Just turned and walked off, key fob already in hand.

He stared after her for a beat, then opened it with calloused fingers. Rice. Chicken. Looked seasoned, smelled like something warm.

He ate it in the rec room when Gaz or Soap weren’t around.

Weeks passed like that.

Mornings shared by proximity. Occasional food handed off with no frills. Not much talking, but just enough.

One night, she came home juggling three bags of groceries. He heard the clatter through his door. Quiet as a cat, he stepped into the hallway, watching her fumble for keys with eggs tucked against her elbow.

“Y’alright?”

She glanced up, a littl’ flustered. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t ask again—just took the bags out of her hands and opened her door.

Didn’t say much inside. Just stacked the items on her counter, rearranged the fridge so it made sense. She stood a few paces back, arms folded loosely, watching him like he was some unfamiliar species of man. One that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t speak unless necessary.

After that, she stopped saying no when he offered help.

Didn’t even protest when he knocked once and slipped into her kitchen to fix the leaking faucet, muttering something about the landlord being a useless bastard. Didn’t fight him when he crouched under her bathroom sink for an hour, elbow deep in tools, because the pipe wouldn’t stop rattling.

And when her heat stopped working?

He showed up with a space heater and a toolbox before she could even ask.

“Don’t like seein’ y’breath in y’r own flat, love,” he said, setting it down. “Might as well freeze m’self out too.”

They still hadn’t exchanged last names.

Didn’t need to.

She knew the sound of his boots on the stairs. He knew the scent of her detergent when it drifted through the shared hall vent.

Some nights, they’d pass each other on the landing and just nod, like soldiers clocking out of the same war. Other times, she’d tug at the cuff of his hoodie with a smirk, muttering something about his wardrobe being ninety percent black.

“Why are y’always dressed like a funeral?”

“Y’got jokes, do y’?” he’d grumble, swatting her hand gently away. “M’comfy. Don’t fix wha’ ain’t broke.”

Once, she offered him tea, and he sat there, hands around the chipped mug, watching her flick through a worn book, her knee tucked under her like it had always belonged on that couch.

That was the night he realized she wasn’t just across the hall anymore.

She was in his air. In the creak of the floorboards. In the muscle memory of his routine.

She’d gotten under his skin without ever raising her voice.

And God help him, he didn’t mind.