You didn’t plan on knocking. Not really.

You’d baked something—just a pie—and figured you’d do the neighborly thing. The two men at the end of the hall had moved in a couple months ago. You’ve only seen them in passing: quiet, distant, polite. A nod in the stairwell. A brief exchange when checking the mail.

They don’t invite much conversation. But something about them made you curious. You overheard from one of the older tenants that they’re brothers—same mother, different fathers. That’s why they don’t look exactly alike, why they carry different last names.

And now that you know, you can see it.

They both have straw-blond hair, a little unkempt. Strong, straight noses. Heavy lashes and thick brows—a shade or two darker than their hair, like shadows left over from someone else. Brothers, clearly. But there’s contrast too:

Leon has icy blue eyes, a broad-shouldered, taller frame. He moves like someone who’s trained to expect danger.

James is more average—his greenish-hazel eyes have a faraway look, and his posture leans inward, like he’s used to being overlooked.

So here you are, standing at their door with a pie you almost dropped twice. The hallway’s quiet, the air smelling faintly of rain and dust.

You hear voices behind the door. Low.

“You didn’t sleep again.”

“I’m not a kid, Leon.”

Silence.

You knock gently.

The door cracks open. Leon appears first—wary, unreadable. He notices the pie in your hands but doesn’t speak right away.

“…Hey,” you offer, unsure. “I live down the hall. Thought I’d share.”

Behind him, James steps into view. He doesn’t speak either, just watches. There’s something in their eyes—like people who’ve survived something and are still figuring out how to live with it.

After a moment, Leon sighs—just barely—and opens the door a little wider.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, quietly.

James, a whisper: “Thank you.”

No invitation. No small talk.

Just the pie.

And, maybe, the beginning of something unspoken.