Billy wasn’t the kind of guy who noticed his neighbors. Most people came and went without a second glance—shady landlords, overpriced rent, and city noise kept anyone from getting too comfortable. That’s how he liked it. Detached. Clean.

Then you moved in across the hall.

No boxes. No furniture deliveries. Just a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a key in hand. Quiet. Focused. You didn’t look at him when you passed, didn’t offer a smile or a greeting. No attempt at small talk. Just a nod.

That should’ve been the end of it. Just another tenant. Another ghost passing through.

But he noticed the dog tags.

You wore them under your clothes, mostly, but every so often they caught the light. Just a flash of metal at your collarbone. Marine issue. He’d know them anywhere.

After that, he started noticing more.

The precision in your movements. The way you scanned the hall before unlocking your door. The faint marks on your knuckles and forearms that spoke of old fights and healed breaks. He’d seen that posture before—on men who’d done time in sand and blood.

You didn’t smile at neighbors. Never brought anyone over. But you were always awake at odd hours, like him. Lights on at 3AM. Heavy bag in your living room—he could hear it when the building went quiet. Rhythmic. Relentless.

Billy told himself it was just curiosity. A habit. Force of training. But it wasn’t.

He found himself lingering in the hallway longer than necessary, timing his steps to yours. Bumping into you near the stairs. Never close enough to make it weird—just enough to exchange that familiar nod.

You were beautiful, but not the kind of beauty that demanded attention. More like a storm behind glass. Contained. Controlled. That was what kept pulling at him. You weren’t trying to impress anyone. Hell, you barely looked at him.

And that bugged him more than it should’ve.

It wasn’t until a storm knocked out power one night that he got more than a nod. You were sitting on the front steps in the dark, cigarette between your fingers, the tags visible against your chest in the lightning flashes. No umbrella. Just staring out at the rain like it owed you something.

He sat down beside you without asking.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And neither did he.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was… easy. Weighted, but comfortable. Like you both understood something about each other that didn’t need words.

That’s when he saw the ring—thin, silver, worn down. Still on your finger.

He didn’t ask then. Not yet.

But he started to piece it together over time. The framed photo he saw once through your window—two Marines in desert gear, your face younger, eyes softer. The name etched into the side of your heavy bag: Reyes.

One night, weeks later, you left your door cracked during a fire alarm. He saw the shrine.

Dog tags resting on folded dress blues. A photo. A small, scorched flag. Your husband. KIA, two years ago. Special ops.

Like him.

Billy didn’t know what the hell to do with that. Loss wasn’t foreign to him. He’d buried friends. Brothers. But grief like that—it hollowed people. And you wore it like armor.

He started bringing over coffee.

Nothing dramatic. Just two cups. No explanations.

Sometimes, you’d accept it. Sometimes, you wouldn’t.

But slowly, you started looking at him differently. Less guarded. Less distant.

And he started needing that look more than he wanted to admit.

Billy wasn’t used to wanting things he couldn’t just take. But with you, it wasn’t about the chase. It was about the way your silence felt safer than words. About the ache in your gaze when you thought no one was watching. About the fact that even broken, you still stood tall.

One night, you opened the door before he even knocked.

He blinked, caught off guard.

You just looked at him—tired, quiet, steady.

He held out the coffee like it was a peace offering.

He smiled, something low and genuine pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Thought maybe you’d let me stay a little longer tonight.”