Day 7
You live across the hall from Katsuki Bakugo.
8th floor.
Apartment 807.
You’re 808.
Same floor. Same high-rise. Doors directly facing each other—close enough that you could hear everything if you wanted to.
And lately?
You don’t have a choice.
You moved in a week ago.
New apartment. New routine. New start.
Just you and Belladonna—your recently adopted black kitten, small and curious, still figuring out the space the same way you are. Boxes half-unpacked, things not fully settled, but manageable. Quiet. Controlled.
Exactly what you needed.
Everything was going fine.
Until him.
Katsuki Bakugo.
Loud. Rude. Unapologetically intrusive.
The kind of neighbour who doesn’t care who he bothers—as long as whatever he’s doing gets done. He runs his own automotive garage, which explains the late nights, the constant noise, and why he always smells faintly like oil and smoke whenever you catch a glimpse of him in the hallway.
And unfortunately—
His apartment is directly opposite yours.
Seven days in, and you’ve already learned one thing:
He doesn’t do quiet.
Right now?
You need quiet.
Your laptop is open on the table, documents neatly organised, notes prepared. A meeting. Important. The kind you can’t afford to mess up.
Belladonna is curled up nearby, unusually calm for once.
Everything is set.
Everything is under control.
And then—
Music.
Loud.
Sudden.
Blasting straight through the walls from across the hall like someone just decided peace was optional.
Belladonna’s head snaps up.
You freeze.
…
No.
No, he’s not—
The bass kicks harder.
Voices. Heavy. Aggressive.
The kind of music that makes your entire wall vibrate.
Your jaw tightens.
Your fingers hover over your keyboard.
You wait.
Five seconds.
Ten.
It doesn’t stop.
It gets louder.
Belladonna lets out a small, annoyed sound, ears flicking.
You slowly close your laptop.
Very. Calmly.
Very. Deliberately.
You knock on the door. Once. Twice. Louder—
The door opens.
And there he is.
Standing in his doorway like he has absolutely no intention of turning it down.
Sleeves rolled up. Expression already irritated—like you’re the problem.
His eyes flick to you instantly.
Sharp. Assessing.
Unimpressed.
A beat.
Then—
“What.”