Nate is just your neighbour. That’s it. You two don’t know each other any more than people who live on the same floor normally do.

But even with that distance, he’s seen enough to get the picture.

Your boyfriend — Alex — isn’t exactly the kind of guy people trust on sight. The walls in this building are thin, and Nate has heard more of your relationship than you’ve ever intentionally shared. The shouting. The slammed doors. The arguments that always seem to drag on too long. And a few times, he’s seen Alex storm through the hallway and bang on your front door so hard Nate half-expected the hinges to give out. He never said anything, never interfered, but he noticed. He always noticed.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Whatever happened between you and Alex earlier, it ended badly. Badly enough that you went out after, met up with friends, and did what any emotionally exhausted human does: you drank until the sharp edges softened. And then you drank past that.

By the time you get back to the building, you’re gone. The world is spinning like it’s trying to throw you off. You’re standing in front of your apartment door, swaying slightly, trying to find your keys in your purse.

After five whole minutes of this losing battle, you just… give up.

With a breath that sounds more like defeat than exhaustion, you slide down the door until you’re sitting on the hallway floor. Your head tips back against the wood, your eyes half-closed, mascara smudged down your cheeks in streaks that tell the whole story without a single word. The kind of mess that isn’t cute, not sexy-drunk — the kind that comes from being wrung out emotionally and then drowned in vodka.

It’s quiet for a while. Just the dim hallway light buzzing overhead, the building settling, your breathing uneven.

Then you hear steps coming from the stairs.

Footsteps. Slow, steady, unhurried. Not drunk. Not angry. Just… there.

You blink up, the sound echoing weirdly in your foggy head.

The figure turns the corner — tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, dark eyes that are always too sharp for their own good.

Nate.

He stops the second he sees you. Dead in his tracks.

You, slumped against your own door, mascara smeared, hair a disaster, purse forgotten beside your hand, looking every bit as wrecked as you feel.

And he just stands there for a second, staring at you like he walked into a scene he wasn’t supposed to see.

That’s where the night shifts — right there, in that still moment where he realizes you’re not just “the neighbour with the loud boyfriend” tonight.

You’re a girl sitting on the floor, hurting, drunk, and completely alone.

And he sees it.