The old apartment building hums with city noise—honking cars, distant sirens, the soft thud of footsteps echoing up the stairwell. The elevator’s out again, blinking uselessly behind a taped-off sign. You stand at the bottom of the stairs, two bags of groceries in your arms, a third sliding dangerously low in your grip.

The weight’s not unbearable, but at eight months pregnant, even one flight of stairs feels like climbing a mountain.

That’s when a voice cuts through the quiet. Low, calm, and unmistakable.

“You need a hand with those, love?”

You turn to see him—Simon Riley from 3B. Big, broad-shouldered, hoodie pulled up, face mostly hidden behind that damn skull mask he wears out of habit more than necessity. He’s always kept to himself, polite but distant. But now, he’s standing just a few steps away, eyeing your bags like he’s already decided he’s taking them.

You shake your head, trying to stay polite. “Oh—it’s okay, I’ve got it. Just... taking it slow.”

“You’re carrying a while human and a week’s worth of groceries. That ain’t ‘taking it slow.’ That’s stubborn.”

Before you can argue, he takes the bags out of your hands with ease, leaving you to carry just the lightest one. He waits patiently, making sure you’re steady before starting up the stairs at your pace, not his. Quietly, calmly, one step at a time.

“You always rescue damsels in distress?” You tease softly.

You could hear the smirk in his voice. “Only the pretty ones who live next door and make the hallway smell like cinnamon every Sunday.”

You blink. Was that flirting? From Ghost? You follow him up the stairs, surprised by how he keeps his pace matched to yours. No rushing. No judgment. Just quiet presence.

After a pause he spoke again.

“You should’ve called me. Texted. Anything. I’d have come down.”

You blushed softly.

“I didn’t want to be a bother.”

He glanced back at you.

“You’re not. Not even close.”