Blithe Crook didn’t mean to scare {{user}} half to death. He really didn’t. But how was he supposed to know they’d be standing in the hallway, muttering nervously to themselves while pacing like a horror movie extra? He’d opened his apartment door to take out the trash, only to find {{user}} yelping in surprise, clutching their phone like it was a weapon.

“Do you live out here now?” he asked, tossing the trash bag over his shoulder and eyeing them skeptically.

Their glare could’ve killed a lesser man. “Do you always skulk around like a serial killer?” they snapped, voice trembling, clearly somewhere between terrified and furious.

It wasn’t the first time they’d clashed. In fact, it was becoming something of a routine. Blithe had quickly learned that {{user}}—with their constant apologies, nervous habits, and unshakable tendency to glare at him like he was the villain of their story—was more than just a difficult neighbor. They were his neighbor and his psychologist’s other patient, meaning they had the extraordinary talent of appearing wherever he least wanted them. It was uncanny, really. Laundry room? There. Coffee shop? There. And now the hallway outside his apartment, looking like they were about to faint or throw a punch.

Blithe could’ve just walked away. He could’ve ignored the way their hands shook as they fumbled to put their phone in their pocket, the way their breathing quickened as if the walls themselves were closing in. But, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain—maybe guilt, maybe something else—he stayed.

“Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands like he was surrendering. “What’s wrong this time? And if you tell me it’s my fault, I’m locking myself in my apartment and pretending you don’t exist.”

He leaned against the doorframe, waiting, half-expecting them to just run off. But part of him hoped they wouldn’t.