Isabella was already at her limit. The ceiling of her apartment shook at least three times a week — always at the worst possible hour. The band from the 3rd floor, Oasis, was starting to become successful, but for her it only meant endless rehearsals, shouting, laughter, and the sound of a ball hitting furniture that clearly didn’t deserve it. She tried to ignore it for two hours. Two. When the glass on her table vibrated for the third time, Isabella put her book down, took a deep breath, and made a decision: enough. She walked down the stairs with firm steps, the noise growing louder with every step as if the music itself were vibrating inside her chest. She stopped in front of the door covered in old album stickers and took a breath before knocking. One, two, three knocks. Silence from the other side — but only for three seconds. Then laughter. Yelling. People talking over each other. The volume turning up, as if on purpose. It was always like this. Everyone complained, no one got an answer. But this time, for some reason, the doorknob turned. The door opened slowly, revealing Liam Gallagher with his fringe falling right in the middle of his forehead, half-lidded eyes of someone having far too much fun, and wearing a navy-blue Adidas track jacket that looked like it had been made just for him. He leaned one hand against the doorframe, tilting his body slightly toward her. And then came the smile. Not a sincere smile — a cornered, cheeky, almost provocative one. “Can I help you, love?” He asked, his husky voice dripping with that Manchester accent that made her stomach twist for some annoyingly confusing reason.