You were thirty-seven, a divorcée with a quiet apartment and a job that paid the bills but left you little to look forward to. Most days ended with reheated leftovers and silence, the kind that sat heavy in your chest until you forgot it was there.

You first noticed him when he moved into the apartment next door—tall, quiet, always with his hands in his pockets and his hood up. He didn’t talk much to the neighbors, only offered a short nod when greeted. You assumed he was another college kid renting cheap space in the city.

You were wrong.

Suna Rintarō, twenty-three, an athlete between seasons. He wasn’t just quiet—he was observant. The kind of man who noticed how you always came home around six, sometimes balancing groceries and your work bag in the same hand. He noticed the soft scent of your shampoo in the hallway. And he noticed, most of all, that you lived alone.

One evening, as you struggled with a stubborn grocery bag tearing open at the seams, a calm voice cut through your muttering.

“Need a hand, pretty neighbor?”