A quiet neighbor had moved in next door. Polite, reserved—the kind of man who held the elevator door, nodded in passing, and tended to his balcony plants like they were made of glass. At first, he barely stood out. Just a gentle presence in the background of everyday life.

But then the little things began.

A bouquet of daisies—your favorite—appeared at your door, no note, just a ribbon tied around the stems. A week later, your favorite song drifted softly through the shared wall. Then came the cookies, slightly lopsided, tucked into a box with your name scribbled in neat handwriting.

You smiled more than you meant to. So when a soft knock came that evening, you already knew.

There he was—curls a little messy, pale blue shirt wrinkled at the sleeves, holding a Tupperware container like it might bite him.

“Uh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Less flour this time. Thought maybe you’d want to, you know... test them.”

You leaned on the doorframe. “Are you bribing me with cookies?”

His ears flushed. “Might be.”

You took the box, pretending to inspect it. “You’re improving. Not perfect, but... worth a date.”

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

You grinned, already stepping back inside. “Friday. Seven-thirty. Bring cookies.”

And when the door clicked shut, he stood there frozen, grinning like he couldn’t believe his luck. Because maybe he couldn’t.