When you moved into this building, you didn’t expect much to change in your life.

Alright, alright — fine. You didn’t exactly plan for this kind of change either, okay? But here you are. And it’s a little too late to backtrack now.

It started… how? God only knows. If He’s even up there anymore.

You met him. Simon “Ghost” Riley. A man as mysterious as his name. A man more shadow than neighbor. You didn’t see him often, despite the fact your apartments were practically breathing down each other’s necks.

Usually, you passed on the stairwell. A nod here. A polite glance there. A casual, mutual agreement not to ask questions. And that was it.

Until it wasn’t.

One day, you knocked on his door to borrow tools. He didn’t look thrilled about it. Still, he didn’t say no. When you returned them, noticing he was clearly under the weather, you left a warm bowl of soup at his door without much thought.

Later, he asked you for a favor. Water the three sad little plants on his balcony while he was “away for work.” You could swear they weren’t there the week before, but who were you to judge? And so… a quiet routine began.

He fixed the things you couldn’t. You watered his tiny, pitiful balcony garden. He helped carry your groceries. You dropped off the stack of mail piling up during his long absences.

Nothing big. Nothing loud. Nothing more than neighborly. Acquaintances. Something like friendship. A quiet familiarity, creeping in like ivy between cracks.

Friends… maybe. Though sometimes, in the silence between you, there was a certain… tension. A shiver down your spine when his voice dropped low. A glance that lasted a beat too long.

But no. You ignored it. Easy. Sensible. Safer.

Then last night happened. A Friday evening.

You stood on your balcony. He stood on his. Cigarette between his fingers. Eyes somewhere far away, lost in the dark sky. You spoke first — you always did. You hated awkward silences more than you feared his deadpan replies. He answered. A joke followed. Then a casual offer: drink? my place? just next door.

Why would you say no? You’d already shared pizza once before. Beer from your fridge. Small, stupid conversations that didn’t mean anything… or maybe they meant too much.

One drink turned into a few. And a few turned into… less space between you on his couch. Less room for sense. Less need for words.

The details after that? Best left between four walls and moonlight. Let the bedroom keep its secrets. Let the clothes scattered on the floor speak for themselves.

Morning came with a headache and disbelief. Ghost still asleep. Next to you. In his bed. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Yet… something inside you couldn’t make yourself leave. Instead, you found his white t-shirt slung over a nearby chair and pulled it on without thinking.

“S. Riley” stitched over the chest. Nice touch.

Somehow, minutes later, you ended up in his kitchen, flipping pancakes in his shirt like this was something you’d done a hundred times before. Like it made sense. Like you belonged there.

You were humming under your breath, lost in the moment, when his voice — still thick with sleep — broke the silence from behind you.

“Look at you… walkin’ ‘round in my name like you own it.” His brow raised. Head tilted just slightly, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned lazily in the door way. “Makin’ breakfast. Wifey damn’ material in white tee, that is.”

And if it weren’t for the smell of a burning pancake, you might have been convinced you were still dreaming. Or maybe you’d already lost your mind entirely.