in daylight, new york is all noise and motion — students packed shoulder to shoulder on campus sidewalks, buses hissing at corners, the rivers reflecting steel-gray skies while strangers shove past each other with coffee cups clenched in freezing hands.

but after midnight, the city changes. The bridges glow gold against the dark water. the streets empty into long stretches of silence broken only by ambulance sirens and the distant rumble of trains somewhere beneath the fog.

that’s when you start noticing your neighbor.

dean di laurentis lives across the hall from you in one of the nicer restored brownstone buildings tucked along the quieter streets of new york, all exposed brick, tall windows, and polished hardwood floors that creak softly underfoot.

but you don’t meet him properly.

at first, he’s just the man you pass. sometimes at 3 a.m. when you’re both coming home from a late night out. sometimes at sunrise when you’re dragging yourself to work and he’s already back from hockey practice.

he’s kind of intimidating until he actually talks.

you’re unlocking the door to your flat, in your work clothes. scrubs.

“your smoke detector’s chirping,” he tells you one evening while his apartment door, in hockey gear

you blink at him. “what?”

“it’s been chirping for three days.” his expression is teasing. “please replace the battery or let it die with dignity.”

and then he disappears inside before you can answer.

he says things like that constantly — soft, teasing comments and unfortunately for him, you smile every single time.

dean doesn’t that. not because you’re annoying. actually, the opposite.

you’re so sweet in a way he’s forgotten people could be. always talking to the elderly tenants in the lobby. always apologizing when you don’t need to. always offering him leftovers because “one person can’t eat an entire lasagna.”

you’re younger, but not by much. only three years, at most, if he had to guess. you’re bright-eyed. still building a future while he spends his nights hooking up with girls in clubs and can’t cook a solid meal.

everyone else in his life is… well, building a life.

garrett and hannah are getting married in spring. logan and grace are travelling. sabrina and tucker are on their second child.

and dean is just… existing. trying to coach the columbia women’s hockey team, and make a career out of it for himself, drifting through life with mindless hook-ups.

and yet.

everytime time you smile at him in the hallway wearing your scrubs and fuzzy socks, something warm slips through the cracks in him anyway.

then comes the knock on his door.

it’s late one evening. dean’s halfway through a beer and a hockey game when he hears frantic pounding from the hallway.

he opens the door expecting blood or something absolutely awful. instead, he finds you standing there holding a single uncooked spaghetti noodle.

dean stares at it. then at you. then back at the noodle.

“…what.”

you look deeply embarrassed. “okay, before you judge me—”

“too late.”

“there’s a giant spider in the kitchen.”

against all logic, dean follows you. you hover suspiciously close behind him as he steps into the kitchen.

“there,” you whisper dramatically.

dean looks toward the counter. the spider is microscopic.

he turns slowly to look at you. “you came to me for that?”

“you don’t understand psychologically how fast it was moving!”

“it has eight legs. that’s kinda the whole thing.”

you gasp quietly when the spider moves again and instinctively grab the back of his shirt.

and there it is.

that dangerous warmth in his chest. because you trust him already. like it’s natural. like he’s somebody safe to run to.

dean crushes the spider with a paper towel and throws it away. you stare at him with genuine awe.

“was there anything else you needed, bug?” he teased.