You had been ordinary in the quietest way possible.

A software engineer with long hours, messy hair tied back with whatever elastic you could find, and a small but carefully kept flat in Manchester. The building itself was old—four floors, narrow stairwell, walls that held sound a little too well—but it felt safe. Earned. Yours. You had moved there to breathe, to finally put distance between yourself and a family that loved too loudly and hurt too often. Manchester wasn’t a dream; it was an escape that slowly became a home.

Your neighbors barely existed. The old man across the hall who smiled politely but never heard a word you said, and the woman downstairs who always smelled of cheap wine and sang off-key at midnight but never caused real trouble. Predictable. Manageable.

Then Simon moved in.

You noticed him the first time because the hallway felt smaller. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark, practical clothes like he didn’t care to be seen but couldn’t help it anyway. He carried his own boxes. All of them. No complaints. No wasted movement. Military, you’d guessed immediately, confirmed later by the quiet discipline in everything he did.

You tried to be friendly. Small things. A nod. A “hey, welcome” when you passed him on the stairs. Once, you even asked if he needed help finding a good takeaway nearby. He was polite—but distant. Short answers. Neutral expression. Eyes that looked through you, not at you. Eventually, you stopped trying. You told yourself he just wasn’t interested in neighbors, and honestly, that was fine.

You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered when you walked away. Or how the silence afterward disappointed him.

The incident happened on a day already gone wrong. Late meeting. Rain. A sprint from the tram. By the time you reached your floor, you were desperate—bladder screaming, dignity hanging by a thread. You reached into your bag.

No keys.

Your heart dropped. Office. Desk drawer. Miles away.

You knocked on the nearest door without thinking.

Simon’s.

You knocked again, harder this time, shifting from foot to foot, legs crossed, cheeks flushed with panic. The door opened almost immediately.

He took one look at you—leaning against the frame, breathless, clearly on the verge of disaster—and his brow lifted slightly.

“Hi,” you blurted, words tumbling out. “I know we don’t really talk but I forgot my keys and I seriously need to pee or I will actually pee myself—can I please come in?”

There was half a second of surprise.

Then he stepped aside instantly. “Bathroom’s down the hall.”

You bolted, muttering thanks, slamming the door behind you with zero grace. On the other side, Simon let out a quiet chuckle before he could stop himself. Warm. Amused. Human.

When you came back out, calmer but mortified, you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you said. “That was… not my finest moment.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, lips curved just slightly. “Happens to the best of us.”

You grabbed your bag. “I’ll, uh, go bother the drunk lady next.”

He shook his head. “You can wait here. I’ll make some tea. Then you can tell me how long you’ve lived next door without actually knowing me.”

You paused at the door, surprised, then smiled despite yourself.

“Deal,” you said. “But next time, I’m knocking for normal reasons.”

He smirked. “I’ll hold you to that.”