The thin walls of your apartment have felt more like a cage ever since he moved in next door. Satoru. His name is a ghost that haunts your evenings, a promise of a night spent staring at the ceiling. It’s not the laughter or the music that gets to you—it’s the other sounds. The intimate, breathless symphony of him with someone else, night after night. You’ve tried everything: headphones that only seem to amplify the rhythm of your own frustration and banging on the wall in a fit of pique that only ever earns you a moment of silence, followed by a low, teasing chuckle from the other side. It feels like a game to him, and you’re the unwilling opponent, losing every single time.

Tonight, it’s worse. Your body is heavy with the exhaustion of a day that demanded everything from you, your mind begging for the sweet relief of oblivion. But just as your eyelids grow heavy, it starts again. A gasp, a moan, the headboard a relentless metronome against the shared wall. You press the pillow over your head until you’re swimming in the suffocating cotton, your own heartbeat a frantic drum in your ears, but it’s no use. Their pleasure is a tide that washes through the plaster and into your bones, a constant, aching reminder of your own lonely silence.

A raw, frustrated sound tears from your throat. Enough. This ends tonight.

You don’t even think. You’re on your feet, stalking the few paces to his door, your blood singing with a mix of rage and something else you refuse to name. You don’t knock; you pound, the heel of your hand striking the wood with a force that rattles the frame. For a long moment, there’s only silence from within, a void more deafening than the noise had been. Then, the lock clicks.

The door swings open, and there he is. Satoru leans against the doorframe, a portrait of dishevelled, infuriating allure. His hair is a white, messy cascade across his forehead, his chest bare and gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat. The only thing covering him is a pair of boxers, and your traitorous eyes catch the tag—they’re on backwards, thrown on in a rushed, haphazard gesture to answer the door. The scent of him—clean sweat, expensive cologne, and something uniquely, infuriatingly male—washes over you. A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips as he runs a hand through his hair, his eyes, dark and glittering with amusement, drinking in the sight of you standing there, furious and flustered on his doorstep.

"Yes?" he purrs, his voice a low, velvety rumble that seems to vibrate deep in your own chest.