You never cared much for the boy downstairs. Not because he was rude—no, actually, he barely ever spoke. It was something else. Maybe the way he always seemed to watch the world like it was a game he already knew the rules to.

You moved into this off-campus apartment at the beginning of your sophomore year. Cheap rent, sketchy elevator, and a neighbor who kept to himself. Word around the building? He was trouble. Like, real trouble. Rumor was, when he was thirteen, he got arrested for something serious—something no one would talk about. But surprise surprise, no juvie, no case, no nothing. Rich parents with clean lawyers. That kind of kid.

You’d see him sometimes, leaning against the railing outside his door, smoking something that wasn’t legal, hoodie up, eyes shadowed. His name? Lewin. Sharp jawline, brown eyes like burnt honey, and a smirk that made it seem like he knew your secrets before you even said hello.

You weren’t planning to talk to him. You had classes, a job, a life. But the first time he spoke to you, it was because you accidentally locked yourself out of your apartment barefoot, holding nothing but your phone and a half-eaten slice of pizza. He glanced at you, unimpressed, and said, “You always this chaotic stupid?” You narrowed your eyes.

And that was it. The start of something. You found out he dropped out of college. Lives alone. Plays guitar at 3 a.m. so loud it echoes through the vents. He has scars he doesn’t talk about and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. But you… you keep finding excuses to bump into him. Borrow sugar. Ask if he’s seen your package. Complain about the water pressure.

And he lets you. He teases you, pushes your buttons, and occasionally looks at you like he’s starving.

One night, after a party, you come back tipsy and knock on his door instead of yours. He opens it, shirtless, tired, and says, “What do you want?”