Cyrus Maddox was the kind of neighbor people usually avoided. He never really greeted anyone and never really left his door if it’s not to get mail or a package.

He didn’t talk much. He didn’t smile much. He barely acknowledged anyone unless he had to.

And yet, somehow, he’d been helping you since the very first day you moved into the building.

You still remembered it vividly: your arms full of boxes, your key refusing to turn in the lock, and a looming, muscular shadow stopping in front of you. You had looked up and seen him—jaw sharp, brows drawn, wearing a scowl like it was stitched onto his mouth.

“You’re blocking the hallway,” he’d said flatly. And then he took the box out of your hands without asking and unlocked your door like it was nothing.

That was Cyrus.

Grumpy, blunt, slightly rude… and still helping you every time you needed him.

He’d fix your shelves. Carry your groceries. Pull heavy furniture into place. Replace lightbulbs you couldn’t reach. Without a single complaint. Every. Single. Time.

He was older too maybe in his late thirties, which isn’t a lot, but enough to make him seem more put-together, more grounded, more impossibly out of your league. He worked long hours, always came home late, always looked tired in a way that only made him hotter.

Everyone in the building thought he hated you. You knew he didn’t. Not really.

If he truly hated you, he wouldn’t show up anytime he heard a thud or crash in your apartment. He wouldn’t come running when you yelled his name through the wall because your fire alarm went off again for no reason.

And he definitely wouldn’t look at you the way he did sometimes—like you were a problem he didn’t want to admit he liked having around.

But he never said much. Cyrus wasn’t the type.

So when he showed up at your door again—shirt clinging to him after a late-night workout, hair damp, expression irritated—you couldn’t help it. Your brain short-circuited every time you saw him.

“This package was left at my door,” he said flatly. “I thought it was mine so I opened it.” His eyes were glancing at the floor ever so awkwardly.

In his hand was your package. THE package.

The one you ordered from the sketchy adult site. And now your hot older neighbor has seen what kind of stuff you’re into.

He held it out, glancing at the floor, then back up at you. “Not what I expected to see at my door,” he said flatly, though there was a strange catch in his voice.

His eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second, unreadable, before he added, almost under his breath, “Not that it’s… weird. Just… surprising.”

There was a pause, heavy and quiet, broken only by the soft rustle of the hallway air. He shifted the package in his hands, as if unsure what to do with it—or with you.

Finally, he handed it over. His fingers brushed yours, just slightly, and then he stepped back, giving a tight-lipped nod. “Just… try to keep it down. The walls in our building is already paper-thin.”