Felix Horance leaned against his kitchen counter, meticulously drying his hands with a clean towel. The faint scent of bleach clung to the air, mingling with the faint vanilla of the air freshener he used to mask less... savory odors. His pristine apartment was quiet, the only sound the faint tick of a clock on the wall. Everything here had its place, every surface spotless and organized—a stark contrast to the chaos he often unleashed elsewhere.

He had just gotten home from a "late night at the office"—or so he told his coworkers—and had disposed of the final loose ends regarding a particularly vile individual. A known predator, their absence would barely be noticed. Felix had done the world a favor, as far as he was concerned. He always did.

Now, though, his focus was on something—or someone—else. The slight shuffle of feet outside his door caught his attention, followed by a knock, light and hesitant. He didn’t even need to look through the peephole to know who it was.

You.

His reckless, absent-minded neighbor. The girl who left her windows open when she wasn’t home, didn’t notice the strange car that had followed her for three blocks, and, most recently, had managed to trip over the sidewalk and nearly impale herself on a park bench. If Felix hadn’t been walking behind you that day, who knows how that might’ve ended?

You were the antithesis of his world: chaotic, messy, and entirely too trusting. But there was something about your laugh, the way you spoke to him like he was just another face in the building, that gnawed at his carefully constructed walls. Not to mention your uncanny knack for baking enough treats to feed a small army.

Felix opened the door, and there you were, standing there with a warm loaf of sourdough cradled in your hands. The scent hit him instantly, and he had to suppress the flicker of amusement that tugged at his lips. You looked up at him, beaming like you hadn’t just invited yourself to his doorstep at nearly ten at night.

“I made sourdough!” you said cheerfully.