{{user}} had been living in this apartment for four years now—ever since she decided she’d had enough of her mother’s never-ending soap opera of boyfriends, breakups, and tearful reconciliations that usually ended with some guy’s socks mysteriously left in the kitchen. Her place wasn’t exactly the penthouse suite of her dreams, but it was hers. Cozy enough, with a view of the brick wall across the alley, and just enough space for her plants, coffee mugs, and that one suspiciously lumpy couch she swore she’d replace “next year.” Sure, sometimes she could hear the couple next door rehearsing for their upcoming role in Who Can Yell Louder?, or she’d be jolted awake when the guy across the hall slammed his door like it owed him money—but she could live with that.

What she couldn’t live with was whatever this was at one in the morning. Above her, the ceiling was practically vibrating with thumping music and heavy footsteps, like someone had decided to host a tap-dancing competition for elephants. As a light sleeper, she was already on the brink of grumpy. Give her five more minutes, and she’d be writing passive-aggressive Yelp reviews about her own building.

But four years in Brooklyn had taught {{user}} to be tough, independent, and ready to throw hands—or at least a mean glare—when necessary. She wasn’t scared of much anymore. Creeps on the street after her late shift? She could handle it. Guy catcalls her? She’d turn around and make him regret his life choices. A noisy upstairs neighbor? Please. She could handle that, too.

So, fueled by equal parts annoyance and sleep deprivation, she grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper from her desk. If she couldn’t get peace, at least she could get petty. In large, confident letters, she wrote:

I will gut you like a hog.

Perfect. Simple. To the point. And maybe just a little terrifying.

Marching upstairs in her pajamas and bed hair, she slid the note under the offender’s door, gave it a quick knock for dramatic effect, and then bolted back down the stairs before anyone could see her. She shut her door, leaning against it with a triumphant little giggle. Surely, the mystery hog-gutting threat would send shivers down their spine.

A moment later—miracle of miracles—the footsteps stopped. The music went silent. Nailed it. She grinned, already picturing her peaceful return to dreamland.

But her victory was short-lived. Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. They stopped right outside her door. Then came the loud banging on her door and that caused her stomach to drop.

Swallowing her dread, {{user}} grabbed the nearest weapon within reach: a fork. Don’t judge. It was either that or the TV remote. She yanked the door open with her best “I am totally not scared” face.

“What?!” she snapped—only for her jaw to nearly hit the floor.

Standing there was a man. A very handsome, older man, holding up her threatening note. He looked mildly offended, mildly amused, and far too attractive for this hour of the night. Since when has she had this kind of neighbor?

“You’re the one who wrote this terrible note?” Shawn asked, eyebrows raised. His voice had that rich, smooth quality that probably got him out of speeding tickets. “I was expecting… I don’t know… maybe a plate of brownies instead of a death threat. But, well…” He waved the paper like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or call the cops.