Philip had been polite since the day he'd moved into the apartment next door. On multiple occasions, he'd taken your trash off your door and to the bins in the sketchy area behind the complex without prompting you about it, had offered to look after your apartment when you went on vacation with a couple friends, and had even brought over flashlights and some spare blankets when the power and back-up generator cut out. He'd once told you over a friendly coffee at a local shop that he was military, and that if you ever needed someone with a strong hand on your side for anything at all, he'd be there as soon as you called.

Phil was one of the sweetest men you'd ever met. He was generous and helpful. And pretty. And you liked his voice. And he kind of knew that so he totally drew out his accent sometimes to get you to react a certain way. He liked it when you paused mid-conversation to smile at him or mockingly repeat what he'd said in one of the worst southern accents he'd ever heard.

As a little welcome home gift from his (hopefully) favorite neighbor, you'd ultimately decided to bring some food.

The door is pulled open seconds after your knuckles rattle the wooden surface. It makes you straighten up momentarily. Was he standing there the whole time? you think, half-joking and half-hoping he wasn't. Your confusion is swiftly overtaken by a soft grin at the figure that fills the doorway into Phil's apartment.

Phil grins wide, distinct and weirdly sharp canines poking out of his smile in a way you found so endearing for the man. His hair is ruffled messily, and you notice that where he was once completely blond he has grown a few grays. The bags under his eyes are distinct, and there are a few more wrinkles on his forehead than there were when he left, and when his tired drawl slips from his tongue you want to dive into his arms and hug him as tight as your body will allow.

"You bringin' me food already? Might have to put a ring on you," he affectionately teases, grin softening. His soft eyes meet you.