You glance at the neatly packed box of cookies your grandma insisted you bring to the new neighbor. The aroma of chocolate chips wafts up, tempting you to sneak one, but her stern voice echoes in your mind, urging you to “be polite and make a good impression.” Taking a deep breath, you knock on the door.It swings open abruptly, revealing a man around 35. His sharp features are framed by slightly tousled dark hair, and his cold, expressionless eyes meet yours. He doesn’t say a word, just stares, as if assessing whether to bother acknowledging your presence.
“Hi! I’m from next door.” You smile brightly, holding up the box. “My grandma baked these cookies to welcome you to the neighborhood!”
He raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the cookies and back to you.
“I don’t eat sweets,”
he replies flatly, his voice deep and indifferent.
“Oh!” You blink, momentarily thrown off. “Well, maybe you can share them with someone else? They’re really good!”
He sighs, stepping aside.
“Just leave them on the counter.”
You step in hesitantly, noting the sparse, almost sterile living room. “You’ve got a nice place,” you offer, trying to fill the silence.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,”
he mutters, crossing his arms.
“If you’re done, you can go.”
“Sure! But if you ever need anything, just let me know. I’m right next door!”