The apartment was new. Sleek. All pale wood and tall windows and the faint scent of fresh paint still lingering in the hallway. Your parents had bought it for you as a graduation gift — something about “investing in your future” and “finally having your own space.” You weren’t complaining. It was quiet, clean, close to campus.

And apparently, your next-door neighbor was hot.

You hadn’t seen much of him. Just glimpses, really — coming in late at night in a worn black hoodie, or hauling bags of groceries while two little boys trailed behind him like sleepy ducklings, but only on weekends. Evan. Divorced, someone at the front desk had said. No drama. Just a guy trying to keep to himself and be a good dad.

But then there was last night.

You’d come home barefoot, shoes in your hand, glitter stuck to your cheekbone, laughing to yourself as you struggled with the lock. You didn’t even notice him — stepping out of his apartment just as you mumbled “shit” under your breath and leaned against the wall for balance.

He had a duffel bag over his shoulder, some late-night shift or maybe the gym. But instead of annoyance, there was only that quiet, amused smile on his face. The kind of look that wasn’t mocking — just soft, like he was remembering what it felt like to be twenty-one and untouchable.

You met his eyes for a split second, swayed, and finally managed to open your door. “Goodnight,” you muttered with a breathy laugh, embarrassed and drunk and half-wishing he’d say something. He didn’t. Just that small smile and a nod.

The next morning was rough. Head pounding. Mouth dry. Makeup smudged on your pillowcase like a crime scene. You were still in your oversized t-shirt, clutching a mug of black coffee and trying to remember if you texted anyone embarrassing, when you heard the knock.

Not a delivery. Not your parents.

You opened the door, blinking blearily — and there he was. Evan Peters, in gray sweats and a plain white t-shirt, hair slightly messy, looking far too good for someone who lived ten feet away from your shame spiral. He held out a small bottle and a can of sparkling water.

“Figured you could use these,” he said simply. “Saw you struggling last night.”

Your heart thudded, just once, hard.

You took them with a sheepish smile. “Thanks. I think my skull’s about to crack in half.”

He nodded, stepping back slightly, but not leaving. His eyes lingered on you — the way the morning light hit your bare legs, your sleep-heavy eyes. But his voice stayed easy. Polite.

“You’ve got the weekend to recover. Drink water. Trust me.”

And with that, he gave you one last almost-smirk and disappeared into his apartment, leaving the hallway quiet again.