{{user}} had never been the type to notice her neighbors much. She kept to herself, worked her shifts at the cafe and came home to her little flat in the evening, exhausted but content. It was a quiet life, nothing dramatic, and she liked it that way. Then Simon Riley moved in two doors down. She remembered the first time they properly met. She’d been juggling two heavy shopping bags on the stairwell, one of the bags threatening to drop with every step. He had appeared out of nowhere, tall and broad shouldered and without a word he took the bags from her and carried them all the way to her door.

After that, she started noticing him everywhere. Passing each other in the hall, waiting for the lift, standing outside the building late at night with a cigarette between his fingers. He never volunteered much about himself, just that he was military. She didn’t push. She could tell there were things he didn’t want to say. Still, a strange sort of friendship took root in those small exchanges. One evening, when her kitchen light began to flicker, he appeared at her door with a small toolkit. “You’ll give yourself a headache living with that,” he said, and within ten minutes the bulb was fixed.

It wasn’t long before she realised she was looking forward to those little moments. And when he came back from one of his deployments, there were evenings spent on her sofa watching films or in his kitchen where she tried and usually failed to bake something edible while he leaned against the counter, quietly amused. So when he’d left again, this time for months, she felt the absence more than she wanted to admit. His flat was too quiet, his door too still. So she offered to pick up his mail and keep his place aired out while he was gone, he’d given her that long, steady look of his before finally saying, “I’d appreciate it.”

It had become part of her routine. After work, she’d grab the envelopes stuffed into his letterbox, unlock his door with the spare key and make sure everything inside was as he’d left it.

This evening, she came back tired from a long shift. She rounded the corner toward Simon’s flat and froze. Two men she’d never seen before stood at his door. One was crouched low, working at the lock with a glint of metal in his hand. The other loomed near the window, peering in. They werent neighbors. Her heart lurched painfully in her chest. Before she could retreat, the taller one spotted her. His gaze locked onto hers, cold and assessing. “Evenin,” he said, his voice low. {{user}}’s pulse hammered. She forced a shaky smile. “Oh hey. Uh…everything okay? Are you friends of Simon’s?” The man with the lockpick straightened, sliding the tool into his pocket. “Something like that. You live here?”

“Couple doors down. I usually pick up his letters while he’s gone.” She gave a small, nervous laugh, pretending she didn’t notice what they’d been doing. “He’s away for work, you know how it is. Long trips.”

“Mm.” The man’s gaze lingered on her, then he nodded. “Right. Work.” The silence stretched, heavy, and {{user}} felt her palms begin to sweat. “Well…I’ll just, uh, drop these off for him later.” She took a careful step backward, praying her expression still looked casual. “Have a good night.” She turned and walked, quickly, back toward her flat. Every step felt like an eternity. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder until she was inside, the door slammed shut. Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped her keys.

She pressed her back against the door, breath coming in ragged bursts. Call the police, her mind urged. But then she thought of Simon. Military. Long deployments. Men breaking into his flat. Was this connected to him? If she called the police, there would be questions she couldn’t answer. Her fingers fumbled with her phone. She scrolled until she found his number. For a moment, she hesitated. What if he couldn’t answer? But the memory of those men’s eyes, sent a shiver through her. She hit call. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then a click. “{{user}}?” His voice was low, rough, steady as ever.