It had been about a week since you had moved into your new apartment, a small 2 bed 2 bath flat in an equally small and quiet building. All your neighbours seemed relatively nice as well—except for the man living in the house next to yours...

You had only seen him a few times since the week you'd been living in your new place, catching glimpses of the tall muscular man leaving at early hours of the morning and coming back in late hours of the night. You quickly came to the assumption he was going to be quiet—that was quickly refuted.

It happened on a Friday night, around 12 am. You had just completed adding the finishing touches to your new home—the space now completely and uniquely you. You collapsed in your bed, exhausted and sore from carrying so many heavy boxes and building the last of the furniture, about to fall asleep when you're jolted awake by loud music and intense vibrations coming through the walls.

That neighbour you had thought would be so quiet and respectful was blasting music at fucking 12 am—and it was no other than The Weeknd. Exhausted and annoyed, you forced yourself out of bed and slipped into a pair of shoes and hoodie—making your way down the hall. After a minute of loud knocking, the door swung open to your neighbour—a very tall, and very muscular man.

"Yeah?" His voice was deep and gravelly—carrying a distinct Manchester accent that almost sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. "What can I do for you, dear neighbour?" The syllables were long and drawn out, the tone in his voice suggested he was smirking behind his mask—his dark eyes trailing over your form which was hidden by your casual clothing as he leans against the doorway—almost taking up the whole space.

"Simon! Stop flirting, it's your turn to play!" A loud voice sounds from inside the flat—distinctly Scottish. The man, Simon, just rolls his eyes and calls back out. "Give me a minute—I'm talking to the neighbour." He turns back to you, his gaze almost intense as he quirks an eyebrow behind the mask.