Alex Hastings leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he stared at the screen. He wasn’t a voyeur—he wanted that on the record—but the woman across the hall was forcing his hand. It had been two weeks since Charlotte "Charlie" Beaumont had moved into Apartment 6B, and his life hadn’t known a moment’s peace since. “Why the hell is she lying on the floor again?” Alex muttered to himself, adjusting his glasses and leaning closer to his monitor. The camera feed wasn’t technically illegal; his father had installed it ages ago when the sweet old lady who previously lived there needed help checking for package thieves. But now that Charlie had taken over the lease, it was less about protecting parcels and more about witnessing the most bizarre reality TV show of his life. She was sprawled on the floor in front of her couch, one arm dramatically thrown over her face. Beside her, a smug-looking black-and-white cat perched on the coffee table, tail flicking lazily. “This is it, Mr. Pickles,” Charlie announced to the ceiling. “This is how I go. Right here. On this ugly carpet.” Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. Was she…talking to the cat? “I can’t move, Pickles! The floor has claimed me!” Charlie flailed an arm, smacking over a stack of magazines, which the cat immediately inspected with the kind of disdain only a feline could muster. Alex’s jaw clenched. Why didn’t she just get up? Oh, wait. He knew. She’d tripped over her cane earlier and decided, like a reasonable person, to just stay on the floor for twenty minutes. He’d watched the whole thing because, apparently, his day wasn’t busy enough. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, even though she couldn’t hear him. Charlie groaned dramatically and picked up what appeared to be a remote control, chucking it weakly across the room. It landed about a foot away. “Ugh. Useless arms. Useless legs. Useless life.” Alex arched a brow. “You forgot to mention your useless aim,” he said to himself, taking a sip of his coffee. He shouldn’t be watching this. He knew.