You used to be able to hear the old woman across the hall playing her classical music in the mornings—but now, all you heard was him.

Martin.

The new tenant next door. Moved in three months ago with too few boxes and too much confidence.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. You’d gotten used to solitude in the building. Most people kept to themselves. You liked that—liked the silence, the space to breathe. Martin disrupted it, just a little. He played his music too loud. Slammed his door when he was in a hurry.

Still, there was something intriguing about him. The tattoos on his hands. The dark hoodie he always wore with the sleeves pushed up. The cigarette you saw him tuck behind his ear.

You told yourself you didn’t care, that he was just another tenant, but you found yourself listening for the way his keys jingled in the lock late at night.

Then came the lizard.

You spotted it one Sunday afternoon as you were returning from groceries—dark green, scaly, long-tailed, and very much not where it was supposed to be. It was just outside his door, perched calmly on the welcome mat he never used. You froze, one bag slipping off your arm, as it blinked at you with lazy disinterest.

You stood there for a minute, unsure what to do. Knock? Call someone? Was there even an apartment protocol for loose reptiles?

Then his door opened with a lazy creak.

Martin stepped out slowly—shirtless, a little rumpled, brow furrowed like he hadn’t planned on running into anyone. His eyes landed on the lizard first. Then you.

He bent down to scoop the lizard into his hands, muttering something under his breath. Then, standing again, he glanced at you with a lazy half-smile. “What? You never seen a lizard before?”