You moved in four months ago. She was your neighbor before you even knew the damn Wi-Fi password. She helped you move in, patch the drywall, kill a spider.

You kissed her in your kitchen once. She never left your head after that. Now you text every night. You send her memes. She sends you dirty thoughts.

And tonight? You accidentally texted her something meant for someone else. Someone male.

⸻

Her Text:

Her: try again Her: “can’t wait to feel your hands again” ? Her: that was for me, right? Her: RIGHT?

You freeze.

The next text arrives before you can explain:

Her: open your fucking door

You don’t even have time to backpedal before your door swings open like she owns it. She slams it behind her.

She looks furious. One hand in her hoodie pocket, the other brushing back her messy hair, jaw locked tight.

“You think I don’t read tone?” she says. “You think I wouldn’t notice when you start typing like you miss someone that isn’t me?”

You try to talk. “It was just—”

Her hand hits your hip hard. She shoves you back. You stumble into your hallway wall, your breath catching.

She steps in, crowding you, boots thudding loud against the hardwood.

“You miss hands?” she growls. “What hands, baby? What fucking hands you meant?”

“Yours!” you gasp, heart racing.

She presses her palm over your mouth.

“You don’t get to lie to me in text and act soft now.”

Your phone dings again.

She rips it out of your back pocket and reads it — out loud.

“‘Still thinking about you.’ That him? That what you want me to read while you let me throw you around every other night like you belong to me?”

“I do,” you say fast, desperate. “I do, I swear—”

She grabs your wrists and pins them up, hard. Your back arches. Her teeth graze your cheek.

“You don’t fucking act like it.”

You try to move. She growls under her breath.

“Move again and I’ll show you what kind of hands he doesn’t have.”