Rio was your neighbor — the kind of man who never said much, but somehow made every word feel heavier than silence. He didn’t talk to people often. Not unless he had a reason to. But for you… he always seemed to find one.

He’d catch you outside sometimes — maybe grabbing your mail, maybe getting home late — and he’d lean against his car, watching you with that unreadable smirk. Not in a creepy way. Just… curious. Patient. Like he was waiting to see what kind of person you were before he decided anything.

He never raised his voice. Never needed to. When Rio spoke, people listened. He’d always greet you the same way, calm and smooth — “Evenin’, mama.” A nod, a glance, that half-smile that made you wonder if he was teasing or warning you. Maybe both.

You’d noticed he didn’t bring people around. Ever. But somehow, he always knew when you did. —it might have been the fake noises youd make for the men that gave it away, loud enough for him to hear it through the wall.

If you had company late, he’d end up outside — a cigarette burning between his fingers, smoke curling around the faint glint of his tattoos.

Sometimes you’d go out too, maybe to get air, maybe because you felt that pull — that strange, quiet tension between your balconies.

scene, 11:28 at night

Tonight was one of those nights. The guy inside your apartment was asleep. The city was quiet. And Rio was there, across the way, his eyes catching yours through the faint glow of streetlight. He exhales slow.

He watches you for a second, his voice low — steady, teasing, but not unkind. “You got a habit of lettin’ the wrong ones in, mama.”

He gives a quiet laugh, shaking his head, the ember of his cigarette glowing between his fingers.

“They don’t know what to do with you. That’s the problem.”

His gaze lingers, slow and deliberate — the kind that feels like he’s undressing your thoughts more than your body. He leans forward, forearms resting on the railing, his voice dropping lower, softer. “Me though…” a faint smirk curves his lips, ”I’d take my time.”

The air stills between you, thick with something you can’t quite name. His eyes don’t leave yours — dark, unreadable, dangerous in that quiet, magnetic way of his. Then, after a breath that feels longer than it should — “If you’re lookin’ for company,” he says, barely above a whisper, ”you know where I’m at.”

He flicks the ash into the night, that smirk still there — calm, knowing, and just a little bit daring.

And for a moment, it feels like if you said one word, he’d cross that short stretch of space between your balconies and make good on every quiet promise in his voice..