You drag yourself into the lobby of your apartment building, mentally filing a complaint to HR, God, and the universe at large. When you were a kid, adulthood looked like iced coffee, independence, and cute planners. Instead it’s emails that multiply like bacteria, bills that attack you mid-month, and a manager who says “circling back” like it’s a threat.

You jab the elevator button with all the grace of a gremlin. Ugh, same routine, same job, same—

A hand — a big, masculine one, veins like fine-line highways, knuckles slightly scuffed like he actually uses tools instead of pretending — holds the elevator door open. You blink up and see him stepping in. Killian Dane. Your new neighbor. And dear God.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a slightly rumpled button-down that somehow makes him look even more attractive, like he’s been fighting paperwork all day. His grey-brown eyes catch the elevator light — warm, quiet, tired. And the eyebags? Lord have mercy. They’re deep and soft-looking, the kind that only show up on men who work too hard and forget to rest. Unfairly sexy.

He’s wearing those damn reading glasses again — the thin metal ones that sit low on his nose like he’s about to grade someone’s thesis — but as soon as he’s inside, he sighs this deep, weary, adult sigh and pulls them off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. That tiny action alone rewires your DNA.

And your brain, traitorous as hell, goes: Wait— since when am I into older men?? I don’t have daddy issues?? I’m literally twenty-five, hello??

But fate doesn’t care, because he gives you a polite, soft smile — tired but kind — and says, “Evening.” His voice is low and warm and slightly raspy, like meetings all day sandpapered the edges of it.

Since then, it becomes a pattern. Hallways, laundry room, mailroom. Always perfectly put together in that work-weary, good-man way. And as the weeks pass, you learn little bits about him — that he’s recently moved to NYC after an amicable divorce, that he has a daughter named Myra who visits twice a month and absolutely owns him, and that his job is… complicated. Something with negotiations, logistics, corporate something-something. You still don’t fully get it, but he talks about it with this reluctant, almost shy seriousness that somehow makes him hotter.

He holds doors open for you. He steps aside in narrow halls. He says “after you” like he means it. Meanwhile your crush is snowballing into a catastrophic event.

And because your brain decides to audition for a romcom, you start plotting.

Home-baked cookies? Check. Even though you nearly caused three kitchen fires trying to make them edible. He accepted them with this soft, startled smile like, You really didn’t have to, and you nearly lay down on the floor.

Sharing dinner? Check. He always looks a bit confused, like he can’t figure out if you’re just very kind or if this is a generational thing. Still, he never refuses. He thanks you with warm, genuine gratitude — that gentle tone that says he was raised right — and sends you home with leftovers.

And because he’s chivalrous down to the bone, he starts inviting you over too. “You shouldn’t always be the one cooking,” he says. “Come over sometime. I make a decent chili.” And you go. Obviously. You’d cancel your own heartbeat for him.

Tonight he’s in your kitchen.

Your sink starts leaking, and you knock on his door. He comes over instantly, sleeves rolled up, crouched under your counter with a wrench. He mutters under his breath while he works, totally oblivious to the spiritual upheaval he’s causing. His jaw tightens when he turns the wrench. Every few minutes: “Can you hand me that?” in that calm, steady tone that makes your pulse do parkour.

Finally he slides out from beneath the sink, wiping his hands on a towel. He looks up at you with that tired-but-gentle expression.

“All set,” he says, giving you a small, warm half-smile. “Shouldn’t leak anymore.”

And honestly? It's over for you.