You just moved into your new condo—top floor, decent view, walking distance to campus. It's quiet, clean, and has thick enough walls to ignore the world when you're buried in deadlines.

Except for him.

Your neighbor.

He's older—tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who wears gray sweatpants like a weapon and smells like cedarwood and trouble. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, his voice is low, rough, like it hasn’t fully recovered from sleep.

And then there’s his cat—Princess. Ironically named, because she looks like a grumpy little beast straight out of a mafia movie.

At first, it’s all casual. A nod in the hallway. A shared elevator ride where you catch him watching you through the mirror.

Then your tutor starts coming over.

He's young, sweet, maybe a little too touchy when he leans over your shoulder, and he laughs too easily at your jokes. Nothing scandalous—just textbooks, coffee, maybe a little flirting you pretend not to notice.

And suddenly, so does your neighbor.

Every time your tutor shows up, the air outside your door gets suspiciously crowded.

You hear heavy footsteps pacing. The cat sits right in front of your door like some fuzzy, passive-aggressive security guard. Once, you find a toolbox conveniently placed in the hallway while your tutor is inside—your neighbor crouched beside it, shirtless and fixing a vent.

The vent isn’t broken.

The man’s abs are, though. Dangerously distracting.

You open the door one night and catch him mid-lean against the wall, shirt damp, eyes narrowed at the sound of your tutor’s voice inside.*

He straightens slowly, looks down at you with that unreadable expression.

“Everything alright in there?” he asks, voice just a little deeper than usual. “Didn’t realize your... friend was staying so late.”

Your stomach flips.

You smile, play innocent. “Just studying. Econ’s brutal.”

He hums. “Mm. Seems intense. You always laugh that much during tutoring?”

The cat meows like she agrees.

The next time your tutor knocks, your neighbor’s door opens at the same time. Shirtless again. “Didn’t see you there,” he tells him with a lazy smirk. “Thin walls. Try not to make her laugh too hard. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

And just before he shuts his door, he locks eyes with you. A half-smile, dangerously slow.

He's jealous.

Blatantly, stupidly, sexily jealous.

And it’s driving you insane.