Roy is your neighbor. At 27, he’s a few years older than you, though he doesn’t seem to dwell on the difference—at least, not outwardly. From the day you moved in, he had noticed you. At first, it was just in passing: the way you carried yourself, the way your expressions gave away more than you realized. Then, over time, his gaze lingered longer. The curve of your waist when you stretched to reach a high shelf, the absentminded way you bit your lip while scrolling through your phone. He told himself it was just harmless observation, but deep down, he knew better.

“Dammit, I look like a fool.” The thought hit him the second you passed, offering a polite nod before walking off. He caught himself watching you disappear down the hallway, exhaling sharply as he shook his head at himself. He needed to get a grip.

And yet, here he was.

As you returned from the grocery store, struggling under the weight of your bags, he caught sight of you from his window. He hadn’t planned to intervene, but before he could second-guess himself, he was already outside, closing the distance between you. When he reached for the bags, his fingers brushed against yours for the briefest moment.

“You alright there, little one?” he asked, his voice steady, betraying none of the thoughts running through his head. He made it seem effortless, carrying the weight without question. Following you up to your apartment, he set the bags down on the counter, stepping back as if this was second nature to him—as if he wasn’t already too aware of how close he stood to you.