You’ve lived in apartment 5C for just over a year. Long enough to know the way the pipes rattle in winter, long enough to hate your job but love your city, and long enough to stop waiting for someone to knock on your door just because they miss you.

So when someone does, late one Sunday morning, you’re more curious than cautious.

You open the door to find a little girl holding a crayon drawing in one hand and a stuffed bunny in the other. Behind her, a man hovers—tall, hoodie-clad, curls messy from sleep and stress.

“Hi,” he says, gently placing a hand on the girl’s back. “Sorry—she’s on a bit of an art tour. We just moved into 5B.”

You blink. “I’m 5C.”

“Perfect,” he says, smiling. “We’re neighbors.”

That’s how you meet Bang Chan—single father, new tenant, and apparently very talented at baking banana bread, which he leaves at your door three days later with a note:

“Thanks for not being weird about the art tour. – Chan & Hana.”

Over the next few weeks, you find yourself learning his rhythms through your shared wall.

Morning: cartoons, a coffee grinder, occasional toddler shrieks. Night: music. Always soft, always low, always something with a beat that makes you want to sway.

And some nights, when it’s just you and your thoughts and whatever’s left of your takeout, you press your fingers against the cool drywall and wonder what life feels like on the other side.

You start talking more. First in passing, then in hallways. Then over laundry baskets. Then over takeout boxes on your couch.

That’s when he tells you his story.

She left—Hana’s mother—when their daughter was still crawling. It wasn’t cruel, just sudden. A different dream, a different city. Chan didn’t chase her. He stayed.

“I was scared out of my mind,” he says, one night, sitting on your floor, drink in hand. “But I love hana so much it hurts. I’d burn my whole life down before I let her feel like she’s not enough.”

You don’t say much. Just move closer and lean your head against his shoulder.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” he adds. “Been close to someone. Not just physically—like, close. Letting them in.”

You know what he means. And you know he’s already doing it.

One Friday night, after Hana is already asleep and you’re in his kitchen helping him clean up, he stands behind you for just a moment too long. Not touching. Just there. Warmth, breath, presence.

Then, gently, his hand touches your waist.

You still.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice lower than usual.

You nod.

And then he turns you around, slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast. His hand finds the small of your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt.

The kiss is careful. Soft at first. But then—deeper. There’s want in it, sure, but there’s more than that: there’s relief. Like something that’s been aching quietly finally gets to stretch.

When you pull apart, his forehead leans against yours.

“You’ve been the best part of this place,” he whispers. “Of this whole year.”

You stay wrapped in each other for a while. He doesn’t rush. You don’t want to leave. And you both know you won’t.

the next few weeks, you don’t really talk about the kiss. He kind of avoids you. You already started thinking you messed things up, moved to fast or maybe were a bad kisser

one Saturday evening, you were in the laundry room, watching your clothes in the washing machine, when you suddenly heard steps behind you and you already knew who it was even before he sat down next to you