The elevator was already closing when you slipped your hand between the doors.

They stuttered, paused, then opened with a soft ding.

He was the only one inside.

Tall. Dark suit. Impossibly composed. His gaze flicked to yours for half a second — then returned to the screen above, expression unreadable.

You stepped in. Pressed your floor. The doors slid shut.

Silence.

Then: “You live in 14B,” he said.

You blinked, turning slightly. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t look at you. “I’ve seen your delivery labels. Always paper bags. No plastic. And caramel lattes. Two pumps. You usually get them at that café on Lexington. The one with the blue awning.”

You stared at him. “Are you… stalking me?”

That made him smile — just a little. Like a secret he didn’t mind sharing.

“No,” he said simply. “I’m observant. There's a difference.”

The elevator climbed. You weren’t sure whether to be flattered or irritated.

He finally turned, eyes locking with yours — startlingly sharp, like he already knew things you hadn’t said yet.

“People don’t usually move into this building without doing their research,” he said. “So either you don’t know who I am…”

He stepped closer, voice dipping low, smooth.

“…or you’re the most interesting neighbor I’ve had in a very long time.”

The elevator slowed.

He looked at you, tilting his head.

“Which is it?”