In a world where flames represent love, it’s easy to get burned.

Hank knew that better than anyone — which is why he was moping on his couch, replaying heartbreak songs and trying not to think too hard.

Then came the doorbell. He groaned, got up, and opened the door — only to freeze.

You stood there, holding a small box, looking adorably flustered.

“Uh—hi,” you said quickly. “Sorry, I think I’ve got the wrong apartment.”

Hank blinked. For a second, he forgot how to speak. “O-oh. You’re the new neighbor, right?”

You nodded, smiling nervously. “Yeah. Just moved into 4B.”

“I’m Hank,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “4A. And, uh… sorry if you heard any sad music last night.”

You laughed softly. “Bon Iver?”

He blushed. “Yeah. That’d be me. Tragic love life and all.”

“Guess we’ve got that in common,” you said. “Mine kind of… went up in flames.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling faintly. “Seems to happen a lot.”

There was a small pause — quiet but warm — where you just looked at each other, realizing neither of you wanted to look away.

You cleared your throat first. “I should, uh, go find my actual apartment before this gets weirder.”

Hank laughed lightly. “Right. But, um… if you ever want coffee, I make a mean cup.”

Your smile widened just a little. “Tomorrow?”

Hank blinked, surprised, then smiled. “Tomorrow.”

When you left, he stood there a while, still smiling to himself — for the first time in a long time, feeling something that didn’t hurt.