You balance the still-warm tin of baked goods in your hands as you stand outside the narrow brick terrace, feeling a faint drizzle cling to your coat. The moving van only pulled away an hour ago, yet here you are, already attempting to be a good neighbour. It seemed like the right thing to do—new street, new start, new faces. And besides, everyone had told you people around here appreciate a gesture, even if they pretend they don’t.

You knock. The sound echoes down the row.

For a moment, nothing. Then the door snaps open.

The man filling the doorway looks like someone carved him out of scowls and late nights. Broad shoulders, jaw set like he’s ready for an argument, eyes sharp as if he’s trying to work out what sort of trouble you’re selling. He’s older than you expected, with a few days’ stubble and a hoodie that’s seen better weather.

“Yeah?” he grunts. Not unfriendly, exactly—just… prepared for disappointment.

You lift the tin slightly. “Hi. I’ve just moved in next door. Thought I’d introduce myself. Brought some cookies.”

He stares at you for a beat too long—long enough that you start to wonder if he’s weighing the food or weighing you. Then he takes the container with a slow, almost suspicious motion, like it might explode.

“…Thanks,” he says, reluctantly, as if the word tastes unfamiliar. But he doesn’t shut the door. He steps back a fraction instead, giving you the smallest sliver of space. “Didn’t need to do this.”