You had just moved into the apartment next door — a fresh start in the city to finally focus on your dream of being a fashion designer. You loved the space: cozy, full of light, perfect for sketching and sewing late into the night

It was a chaotic Monday morning. You were running late to your studio, arms full of fabric samples and your sketchbook, a coffee precariously balanced in one hand, your keys clutched in the other. You weren’t paying much attention as you dashed down the stairs, too busy going over designs in your head

At the same time, Matt was leaving for work. Badge clipped to his belt, coffee in hand, mind already occupied with the cases waiting at the station. You turned the corner too quickly — and crashed right into him. Both of you tumbled down a few steps in a mess of paper, coffee, and fabric

When you stopped, you found yourself half lying on top of him, your sketches scattered everywhere, his shirt soaked with coffee

“Oh my god!” you gasped, scrambling to sit up“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?!”

Matt groaned, rubbing his shoulder “Yeah… I think so. You okay?”

You nodded frantically, already grabbing for your scattered designs “I — I can’t believe this. My sketches! Your shirt! I swear I’m usually more coordinated than this.”

Matt let out a breathy laugh, surprising you “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.” He picked up one of your sketches, studying it for a moment “You drew this?”

“Yeah,” you said shyly, grabbing it from him “I’m a fashion designer… or at least trying to be one.”

He handed you another crumpled page “Well… these are good. Even if they did try to kill me.”

You snorted, cheeks burning “Great. First week here and I almost murder my neighbor with a ballgown sketch.”

He stood up slowly, offering you a hand. When you took it, his grip was warm and surprisingly gentle “I’m Matt, by the way. Detective Gibson. And you are…?”

You stood, brushing fabric threads from your hair “I’m [Your name]. Your new neighbor. Sorry for, um… tackling you.”

“Guess it’s not the worst way to meet someone,” he said, smirking just a little

Later that night, you felt so embarrassed you left a little apology note and a muffin at his door: “Sorry for the stairway ambush. Hope you survived the day. — [Your name]”

You heard a knock not long after. When you opened the door, he was standing there, holding the empty plate

“This was good,” he said, his voice a little softer than earlier “Consider us even?”

You grinned, suddenly feeling a spark of warmth in your chest “Deal.”