First night in the new place and the living room looks like a shipping container exploded. Boxes lined up against the wall, some with the tape already split and the cardboard gaping open like jaws. I can’t tell which are supposed to go to the kitchen and which are marked “bedroom,” because somewhere in hour three of hauling my possessions up the deathtrap stairs, the labels all became generic: “MISC,” “OFFICE,” “MISC 2.” Sweat’s dried cold on my back, shirt stuck to my skin, and I’m kneeling over a duct-taped Amazon relic trying to dig out a can opener when I realize I’ve already bled through the tip of my index finger. Little spot of red soaking into the masking tape.
The smell in here is fresh paint and whatever passed for “new construction” in the 1980s. The previous owner left a refrigerator full of fridge magnets and a single, ancient bottle of sriracha, the cap crusted shut. The only light is a bare bulb overhead, swinging gently because I keep brushing it with my head every time I pass. That, and the ghost-blue rectangles leaking from the city streetlights through my paper-thin blinds.
I throw the can opener onto the counter and sit down hard on a milk crate. My left knee twinges from the stair work. On the floor: a litter of loose change, mismatched socks, and my least favorite mug, already chipped. Everything’s familiar and alien at once, like living inside a knockoff IKEA showroom. This is what reinvention looks like, I tell myself, even though I haven’t technically done anything yet. Just moved. Just spent a week convincing my boss I wanted to transfer. Just shed a city, a history, like a snake molting skin that still fits but smells wrong.
There’s a knock at the door. Not the hesitant, are-you-busy tap of a neighbor, but a flat, percussive knock that says: open up, I’m not waiting.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. They come away streaked with grime and dried blood. The door groans when I open it. Standing in the yellow hallway light is a man, maybe an inch or two taller than me, his frame broad enough to block the fluorescent afterglow from the exit sign at the end of the corridor. He wears a thermal shirt and paint-splattered joggers, neither baggy nor skin-tight, just exactly what you wear to haul boxes or break bones, depending on which way the conversation goes.
He’s carrying two moving blankets and a roll of duct tape. His eyes cut to my hands, then my face.
“Need a hand?” The voice is low, unhurried, and just this side of amused.
I stare at him for a beat too long. “Yeah,” I say, and it comes out hoarse, “thanks.”
He steps in. The effect is instant: the space gets smaller, the air heavier, like he’s dragging some local gravity with him. He drops the blankets by the door and surveys the wreckage, hands on his hips. His fingers are long, clean-nailed, callused at the pads.
“I’m Malik,” he says, not bothering with the handshake. “Next door.”
“Elliot.” I manage not to stutter, but my hands are back to shaking.
He’s already moving, scanning the room. “You got something heavy stuck in the stairwell.”
Shit. “The chair?”
“Yeah.” A single nod. “Didn’t want to scratch the paint.” He says this like he’s already read my mind, anticipated my neurotic horror at damaging property on day one.
Malik picks up the duct tape and we make our way back to the stairwell where the chair still sits all alone. He kneels by the chair, wrapping the ragged ends of the moving blankets around the base. His movements are precise, measured—no wasted energy, no hesitations. It’s the opposite of how I move, even on good days.
He lifts the chair—my grandfather’s, which means it weighs more than a dead body and is twice as unwieldy. I grab the other side, which feels like a joke; I’m here for ballast, not muscle.
The stairwell is a concrete chute with sharp turns and low clearance, but Malik angles the chair so we clear every corner. He doesn’t grunt, doesn’t curse, doesn’t even breathe hard. He just moves.
We get it inside and set it down, and for a moment we’re both quiet, breathing the same sawdust-and-paint air. The bulb overhead swings, catching Malik’s face in weird shadows. He’s not smiling, but he’s not not smiling, either.
“Anything else?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he means stuff to move or if I have other problems he’s supposed to solve.
“Just boxes,” I say.
He shrugs. “Boxes are easy.” He’s already grabbing the biggest one, the one I deliberately left for tomorrow because it says “Winter Clothes” and it’s mid-August. He tosses it onto the futon like it weighs nothing, then turns back, scanning for another task.
I notice his arms for the first time—not just gym-ripped, but dense, knotted, functional. There’s a tattoo around his left forearm, text I can’t read at this angle. He catches me staring. The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Fresh start?” he asks, nodding at the chaos.
“Something like that.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t need to. The way I’m dressed, the bruised hands, the bags under my eyes—it’s all there for anyone with the right kind of vision.
He doesn’t press. Just stacks another box, then steps back and surveys the scene. “If you’re hungry, I ordered too much. You eat chicken?”
I blink. The question lands sideways.
“Yeah. I mean, sure. Thanks.”
“I’m in 204. Knock whenever.” He wipes his hands on his joggers and heads for the door, pausing only long enough to look back and say, “You should wrap that finger.” Then he’s gone, footsteps soundless on the tile.
I close the door. The bulb keeps swinging, and I stand there with my back pressed against the wood, counting the thumps of my own heart. I replay the last five minutes in my head, trying to decide if it was weird or if this is what normal looks like in a place where no one knows me.
I realize I never even offered him a drink. I can still feel Malik’s presence in the apartment, like he’s rearranged the molecules just by walking through.
First day at the new job and I’m already regretting my choice of shirt. It’s an okay color, but too tight at the shoulders, and the collar keeps rolling itself into a smug little tube every time I so much as glance down. I expected chaos: forgotten orientation, a desk with someone else’s old coffee rings, confusion about which copy machine doesn’t immediately jam. Instead, everything’s hyper-organized. They have a PowerPoint for even the most mindless tasks: how to format internal memos, how to label outgoing mail, how to log hours with an app that looks like it was made for six-year-olds.
I follow along, nod where I’m supposed to, and even manage a joke about my last boss that lands well enough to draw a snort out of the room’s only other new hire. The HR manager walks me through the benefits folder—color-coded and laminated—and I resist the urge to tell her I won’t ever use the dental, since the only thing worse than a cavity is the conversation you’re supposed to have while someone’s got their fingers in your mouth.
Lunch is a cold turkey sandwich in my car, because the cafeteria feels like a terrarium and I don’t want to be on display. I scroll my phone, type out three versions of a “settling in fine” text for my mother, then delete them all. She doesn’t need to know I’m okay yet. She can marinate in the possibility that I’ve been murdered by a neighbor or drowned in a sea of my own bad decisions.
By 4 p.m., I’m already halfway through my onboarding packet and my new boss, Taryn, pops her head over the cubicle wall.
“You good, Monroe?” She’s got the half-smile of someone waiting to see if I’ll fuck up.
“Easy enough so far.”
“Let me know if you need anything. Tomorrow’s all hands on deck—real work.”
I give her the thumbs up, which feels as unnatural as giving a peace sign, but she seems to accept it as normal office behavior and disappears.
I leave the office a little after five, feeling like maybe, just maybe, I didn’t completely botch day one. It’s almost enough to keep me upright as I walk the five blocks home, fighting the humid breath of the city and a low-key throb behind my right eye.
The corridor to my apartment is so quiet I think, for a second, that everyone else moved out. Even the flickering exit sign seems to have tired itself out, buzzing once and dying mid-glow. My footsteps echo up the stairwell, hollow and weirdly intimate.
The apartment smells the same as last night—fresh paint, ancient sriracha, that faint whiff of plastic from unopened trash bags. I toe off my shoes and let them collapse wherever. The boxes look smaller, less threatening in daylight, but there are still way too many of them. I consider opening a beer, then remember the fridge only contains hot sauce and a water bottle. Instead, I pluck a can of Sprite from my emergency cooler and chug half of it in one go.
I almost miss it at first: a pulsing, low-frequency rhythm through the east wall. It’s not loud, but it’s constant—like a heartbeat with better taste in music than me. I press my hand against the drywall and imagine the bass vibrating through the studs, the sheetrock flexing around every downbeat.
Laughter, soft and close. Someone else in Malik’s apartment.
I try to unpack, but my hands keep pausing. I unearth a stack of t-shirts and set them on the futon. I start folding, then lose track and start over. The music changes—now it’s something with a shuffling snare, a vocal that sounds like someone seducing a ghost. I move closer to the wall, listening. The voices blur, indistinct, but I can pick out Malik’s: low, matter-of-fact, no wasted syllables. The guest’s laugh is sharp, flares and dies like a matchstick.
I stand there a good five minutes, just listening. I don’t know what the fuck I’m hoping to hear. Some clue about Malik’s life? Whether he’s single, whether he brings home guys or girls or both? I realize how pathetic this is, how freshman-year-stalker it looks to stand in my half-unpacked living room, glassy-eyed and tuned to the neighbor’s evening.
I pace. I open a box labeled “Office” and scatter the contents onto the coffee table. Somewhere in the mess is the USB cord I need for my phone charger. I find it, plug in, and sit with my back against the futon. The wall behind me hums with bass. I wish I could see him, just once, moving through his apartment. I picture him the way he looked last night—muscle coiled under soft clothes, those hands precise and surgical. I wonder if the tattoo means something or if it’s just art. I wonder if he’s ever hit someone with the same calm he uses to move furniture.
I light a cigarette and open the window an inch, careful not to set off the smoke alarm. The air outside is syrupy and hot. A woman on the street below argues with someone on speakerphone, her voice ricocheting between the buildings. I watch her for a moment, then close my eyes and let the music from next door fill the space between my ears.
Time blurs. I imagine knocking on Malik’s door, making some excuse about needing a toolbox or jumper cables, but the thought of actually seeing him again sends a spike of adrenaline up my neck. I’m tired, but it’s the kind of tired that comes with caffeine jitters and low-grade shame.
I try to remember the last time I didn’t feel alone. Maybe that’s why I listen—why I keep the music and voices as close as I can, as if proximity might count for something.
It gets late. The voices fade, replaced by footsteps and the gentle slam of a bathroom door. I sit on the futon, cigarette burning down to the filter, and stare at the wall. I make a list in my head of all the things I’m supposed to be doing: finish unpacking, call my mother, figure out what I’ll wear tomorrow.
Instead, I listen, and wait, and wonder if tomorrow will feel any less like the first day of a new life and any more like something I actually want.
Laundry room is below street level, cinder block walls painted the color of gum disease, fluorescent tubes humming like an insect hive. It’s a sauna in here even though it’s technically fall, and the concrete floor always seems to be sweating. I bring my basket down at 7:45 because the building memo says that’s the “low traffic hour,” but apparently no one else read it. Three out of five washers are churning someone else’s life into suds.
I pick the one at the end because the glass is less fogged and it’s not next to the detergent spill that’s been fossilizing for at least a month. I jam in my load, pour the last of my generic detergent, and slam the door. Nothing. I check the coin slot. It’s green-lit, paid up, but the handle refuses to budge, sticking like it’s welded shut. I put my shoulder into it and hear a squeal from the hinge, but the door only gives a quarter inch. I yank again, not caring if I pop a rotator cuff, and hiss, “Motherfucker—”
“You always talk to the machines, or just the stubborn ones?”
The voice is behind me. I freeze mid-jerk, hand still clamped to the sticky handle. I already know who it is; the air gets a little heavier before I turn.
Malik stands at the bottom of the stairs, laundry basket balanced on one hip. He’s wearing the same paint-spattered joggers from the other night, and a white t-shirt so thin it’s probably illegal in some states. He doesn’t come all the way in. He watches, dark eyes flicking from my hands to my face and back.
“It’s stuck,” I say. Like maybe he didn’t just see me have a full wrestling match with it.
He sets down his basket. There’s a bottle of some boutique detergent balanced on top, the label written in a language I can’t read. He walks over, doesn’t say a thing. Just reaches past me—close enough to catch a drift of his cologne, sharp and slightly bitter—and presses the heel of his palm into the top right corner of the door. He gives it a little twist. It pops right open, smooth as a hinge commercial.
He holds the door for me. I scramble to reload my sad tangle of shirts and jeans, but one pair of boxers slides out and lands at his feet. He picks it up. Holds it by the edge, thumb and index finger, then drops it into my basket like it’s evidence. Our eyes meet for half a second.
“Thanks,” I stammer, and my throat makes an embarrassing click.
“Careful with this one,” he says, rapping the washer’s lid. “It jams when it’s full.”
“Oh,” I say. “You’ve lived here a while, huh?”
He shrugs. “Long enough.”
The way he says it leaves nothing to work with. He’s back to his basket already, unloading with one hand, his other thumb scrolling something on his phone. I get a ridiculous urge to apologize for the boxers, as if that’s not literally the point of laundry.
The washer thrums to life. I lean against the wall and pretend I have something urgent on my own phone, but my fingers can’t stop replaying the way he popped the washer open—decisive, like he could do it blindfolded.
Malik doesn’t waste motion. His clothes—mostly black, gray, navy—go into the machine in neat, folded stacks. No tangled sleeves or missing socks. I try not to stare but my peripheral vision betrays me. He’s not ripped like a gym selfie, just dense, everything compact. When he bends to add a shirt, the outline of his traps pushes against the fabric. There’s that tattoo again, circling his forearm: black bands, sharp-edged, not ornamental.
I run out of things to scroll. The silence is thick except for the low chug of the washers and the dull, cyclical clank from the dryer vent. I clear my throat because the urge to say something, anything, is worse than risking an awkward silence.
“So, uh, do the dryers actually dry, or do I need to plan for a double round?”
He doesn’t look up. “Middle one’s the only one that works. If you don’t mind your shirts smelling like someone else’s weed.”
“Guess I’ll risk it.” I try to smile. My lips feel rubbery.
“You from the city?” he asks, finally glancing over.
“Not really.” I debate whether to elaborate. “Grew up upstate. Moved around a lot.”
He nods. “Army brat?”
“Not even. Just my mom and a string of jobs that didn’t stick. I guess you could say I never learned how to stay in one place for long.” I hear myself, wince. Why the fuck am I oversharing?
He cocks his head, considering. “New job?”
“Yeah. Office stuff. Boring, but it pays.” There’s a beat, then I add, “You?”
“Construction,” he says, and the way he says it makes me think he’s either oversimplifying or has been asked a million times before. “Demolition, mostly.”
“Cool.” It comes out flat. I almost want to apologize for being so vanilla by comparison.
He moves closer, emptying out the last of his basket. I catch his eyes on my hands—probably noticing the fresh cuts and tape from yesterday’s moving disaster.
“Those healing up?” He nods at my finger.
“Oh, this? Just a scratch.” I show the bandaid. It’s already peeling up at the corners. “Nothing major.”
He looks at me for a second, not at the bandaid but at my face, like he’s measuring something. Then he grins—barely, just a flick at the corner of his mouth—and turns back to the machine.
I want to ask about the tattoo, or his last name, or literally anything, but the words jam up in my throat. I stand there, fixated on the way he leans against the dryer, one hip cocked, arms folded loose. He doesn’t seem impatient. He doesn’t seem to notice how I’m falling apart inside my own skin.
I check the timer on my washer: 22 minutes. A lifetime.
“Do you always do laundry this early?” I ask.
“I don’t sleep much,” he says. “Quieter down here than upstairs.”
I nod, like I get it. I kind of do.
He eyes the clock above the door. “You don’t have to wait. It’ll finish on its own.”
I shrug. “Got nothing else to do. Place is still mostly boxes.”
He’s quiet again. He finishes loading his own washer, pours the soap with that same deliberate, unhurried motion, then wipes his hands on his joggers. He checks his phone, then slides it into his pocket.
There’s a hum in my head that has nothing to do with the machines. I feel like I should leave, like I’m in the way, but my legs won’t move. So I stand there, desperate for something to keep my hands busy. I fish a stray coin from the detergent spill, spin it on my palm.
Malik turns, basket under his arm. “You want a tip?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t use the vending machine. The snacks are all expired.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I guess that leaves me with the sriracha bottle upstairs.”
“Yeah,” he says, “it’s been there since the last guy lived in your apartment. Nobody’s had the guts to throw it out.”
He waits, like he expects me to laugh. I make a noise that might be a chuckle.
He heads for the stairs, pauses with his hand on the railing. “If you need anything, I’m around.”
“Thanks. I mean it.”
He nods, then takes the stairs two at a time. His footsteps are loud, then gone.
The room is suddenly too empty. I stare at the washers, but my mind replays the brief touch, the way his eyes found my mouth and held it before returning to my face. It was only a moment, but I felt it everywhere.
I stay for the full wash cycle, even though it’s pointless. When I stuff my clothes in the dryer, I realize my hands are shaking.
I can’t take the heat, or the quiet, or the ghost of his cologne in the air. I grab my basket, leave half my stuff still damp, and haul ass upstairs like if I don’t, I’ll say something out loud I can’t take back.
The evening is a mouthful of static, thick with humidity and distant sirens. My apartment is a sweatbox; the only functional vent seems to push air straight from the boiler. After two hours of half-hearted unpacking, I give up. I snag a beer from the cooler and step onto my postage stamp balcony, barefoot and shirt already darkened with sweat. I want fresh air, but all I get is exhaust and the faint odor of old marijuana drifting up from the alley.
I lean on the rusted railing, bottle sweating in my hand, and let the city lights blur my eyes. It’s almost peaceful until I notice movement from the corner of my eye. Malik’s out on his own balcony, perched on a battered lawn chair with his legs kicked out and his head tipped back like he’s catching signals from a distant satellite. He has headphones on so he doesn’t see me at first. He just sips his drink—something in a black mug, probably coffee or maybe bourbon—elbow draped over the armrest.
I think about ducking back inside. But he turns and spots me. For a heartbeat, we just look at each other. I expect him to nod and go back to zoning out. Instead, he lowers his headphones and lifts his mug and says, “Evening.”
“Hey,” I say. My voice cracks like I haven’t used it in days.
“How’s the box fort?”
I glance at my apartment, every window lit up and full of cardboard carnage. “Still holding the line,” I say. “They might outnumber me.”
He smiles. It’s small but real. “You’ll break their will by week’s end.”
I step closer to the rail. “You make it sound like you’ve been through this before.”
“Three times,” he says. “First week’s the hardest.”
“Then what?”
He considers. “You get used to the echo.”
I laugh, but it’s a little too sharp. “Yeah. I guess.”
He drinks. I drink. There’s a lull where it’s obvious neither of us knows if this is a conversation or a weather check. He tips his head toward the city skyline, a glass grid of windows and neon bleeding through the night.
“You ever live in a place this loud before?” he asks.
“No,” I admit. “I grew up rural. At night it was just crickets and sometimes my mom’s TV.”
He nods. “It’s different here. You can’t turn it off, so you have to let it wash over.”
“That supposed to be comforting?”
He grins. “Didn’t say it was.”
We drink in silence for a while. I try to match his posture—relaxed, owning the space—but every part of me is coiled tight. I grip the bottle so hard the label shreds under my thumb. The beer is flat and warm by the third swallow, but I keep drinking it anyway.
He asks, “You settle in at work?”
“First day was a circus, but it’s whatever. Desk job.”
He makes a noise like he’s heard it before, or maybe just doesn’t believe in office life.
“Better than demolition?” I ask, trying to sound light.
He shrugs. “It pays.”
The quiet isn’t awkward, not really, but it’s charged. Like both of us are waiting for the other to say something that matters.
Malik says, “You know, you’re wound pretty tight.”
The words land like a physical touch. I flinch. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t look away. “You can tell a lot by the way people stand. You haven’t unclenched since you moved in.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him I’m fine, that I’m just new, that it’s normal to be tense when everything’s unfamiliar. But my mouth moves and nothing comes out.
He watches me. Not smiling. Not cruel. Just seeing.
I look down at the street, count cars, try to steady my breathing. The bottle in my hand is almost empty but I keep holding it, like it’s proof of something.
I say, “Maybe I just don’t like being watched.”
He nods. “Some people don’t.”
He stands, stretches, sets his mug on the ledge. “You need anything, let me know,” he says. “Otherwise, have a good night, Elliot.”
He says my name like he’s testing it, like he already knows how it tastes.
I mumble something about unpacking and slip back inside. My hands are sweating and my heart is jackhammering under my ribs. I lock the balcony door—not that it would keep anyone out, especially him—and lean against the glass, forehead pressed to the cool pane.
Through the wall, bass starts up again. It’s faint but constant, like a pulse.
He’s not wrong. I am wound tight. But if anything, after five minutes with Malik, I’m strung so high I could snap in two.
I can’t sleep. Not even a little. I try every trick: count the cars down on the avenue, focus on the hum of the fridge, even stare at the blank ceiling until it glows with afterimages. My skin itches with humidity and the memory of Malik’s eyes on me, his voice still echoing, “You’re wound pretty tight.” No shit.
At 1:30 a.m., I give up. My bedroom floor is covered in packing debris—bubble wrap, empty tape rolls, shattered hopes—and the trash can is already overflowing. I stuff it all into a contractor bag, knot it tight, and figure I’ll drop it in the chute. Maybe walk a couple laps of the hallway, get the adrenaline out.
The corridor is deserted except for the dying glow of the exit sign, which flickers like it’s trying to send Morse code. The only sound is the soft slap of my bare feet on linoleum. I round the corner, bag dragging behind, and almost crash into someone coming the other way.
It’s Malik. Of course it is.
He’s wearing sweats and an old windbreaker, hood up, hands shoved in the front pocket. There’s a bead of water clinging to his jaw—maybe he just came back from a run or a late-night errand. I catch a hit of his cologne mixed with the cold, metallic scent of night air.
We both freeze, bag caught between us like some fucked-up peace offering.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “Didn’t mean to—uh—”
He doesn’t move. The hall is so narrow our arms brush if I even think about shifting. I become hyperaware of everything: the pulse at my throat, the stick of the bag handle against my palm, the slow, deliberate way Malik’s gaze crawls from my face down to my feet and back.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he says.
I shake my head. “Thought I’d take the trash out, maybe clear my head.”
He nods. “Fresh air helps.”
We’re still standing close enough to feel each other’s breath, but neither of us backs up. I should move, but the rest of my body isn’t listening to the logic center of my brain.
He glances at the trash bag, then at me. “You always do this barefoot?”
I look down, embarrassed. “Habit.”
“Looks cold,” he says, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s daring me to admit it.
“It is.” The words come out in a whisper.
He shifts, but instead of stepping around me, he stays put. Our shoulders are almost touching now. He smells like rain and sweat and that cologne, expensive but not ostentatious. I feel it in my chest, a thump like a starting gun.
His hand moves—slow, no rush—reaching for the bag handle. For a second, our fingers touch, his thumb tracing over my knuckles as he takes the weight from me.
“I got it,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“Thanks,” I say, barely audible.
He doesn’t break eye contact. “You want to walk a bit?” he asks.
It’s the last thing I expect, but somehow the only thing I want. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, okay.”
He turns, and I follow. We walk the length of the hallway, silent except for the scrape of the bag and the echo of our steps. The exit sign casts weird shadows, painting his face in stutters of red and blue. At the end of the hall, he swings the bag into the chute with a single, casual motion. I watch his forearm flex, the tattoo band catching the flicker of light.
He leans against the wall, hands in his pockets. I lean too, matching his angle, not sure what to do with my own hands. I want to say something funny, something smart, but all I can think about is the way he looks at me, patient and unblinking.
Malik says, “You always this jumpy?”
I try to laugh it off. “Only around people who make me nervous.”
He grins. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, even though I do.
He steps closer, just a fraction, but it feels like gravity shifting. Our arms brush again, skin on skin.
“You ever been kissed in a hallway?” he asks, voice quiet.
My mouth goes dry. “Not recently.”
He tilts his head. “You want to?”
I nod, and it’s all the answer he needs. His hand comes up, fingers skimming my jaw. He kisses me once—light, testing—then again, deeper. It’s not gentle, but it’s not rough, either; just honest, like he’s daring me to feel everything at once.
I kiss him back. For the first time in weeks, my brain shuts up.
When we pull apart, we’re both breathing hard. He leans his forehead against mine, close enough I can taste the salt on his skin.
He says, “You can let go, you know. Nobody’s watching.”
I close my eyes and let myself laugh, just a little. “You make it look easy.”
He pulls back, smiling for real now. “Maybe you’ll get the hang of it.”
We walk back to our apartments side by side, not touching, but the air between us is electric.
At my door, I stop. “Night,” I say.
He winks. “Goodnight, Elliot.”
I stand there, watching him go. My whole body is humming. It takes a minute before I remember the trash, or that I’m still barefoot, or that my door is unlocked.
I go inside, lean against the wall, and let myself smile for the first time since I moved here.
The next night, I stand in front of Malik’s door so long my knuckles go numb holding the tupperware of fruit salad. The hallway is silent except for the buzzing of the exit sign, but my own pulse is way louder: a shallow, arrhythmic thump that’s already migrated to the base of my skull. I’ve been staring at the wood grain for at least three breaths, practicing how I’ll say “thanks again” or “hope you like fruit,” when the door swings open before I even knock.
Malik fills the doorway like he’s been there the whole time, waiting. He’s barefoot, wearing a white t-shirt so thin you could trace the slope of every muscle underneath, and gray sweatpants slung low enough on his hips to start an argument. The apartment behind him is clinical: not a speck of dust, nothing on the walls except a single black-and-white photo above the couch. The air inside smells like garlic and something green, basil maybe, and it’s so clean it’s almost offensive.
He stares at me for a beat, eyes flicking to the tupperware.
“You bringing peace offerings, or planning a trade?”
“Get in here,” he says, not quite smiling, but his voice is gentler than his face.
I step over the threshold. The floors are hardwood, nothing sticky or scuffed. His kitchen could be an ad: stainless steel everything, a single chef’s knife resting on a towel, no clutter, no magnet collection, just the necessary objects in the exact spots they’re supposed to be.
He doesn’t make a big deal about taking the dish from my hands, just sets it in the fridge with an efficiency I want to mock but also envy. Then he gestures at the tiny dining table, where there are already two plates, two glasses of water, a pan of lasagna in the center, steaming and cheesy and clearly not store-bought.
He sits and waits. I pull out the other chair and sit, bracing for some kind of interrogation. Instead, Malik serves out a perfect square of food onto my plate, then his, then eats in silence.
The only sounds are fork-to-ceramic and my own breathing. I take a bite. It’s good—better than mine, which is frankly rude since he’s probably never watched a YouTube recipe video in his life.
He catches me staring at the food. “What, you don’t do carbs?”
“No, this is—” I take another bite, because my mouth needs a task. “It’s great. Just not what I expected.”
“What were you expecting?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Pizza? Takeout?”
He tilts his head, considering. “My mother would die if she knew I was feeding guests like an animal.”
“Lasagna isn’t animal food.”
He levels a look at me that could polish granite. “You’d be surprised what counts as etiquette in this building.”
I want to say something witty, but my brain is just on loop: the way his shoulders fill the t-shirt, the way his hands are careful even when they don’t need to be. I chew and swallow and hope he doesn’t notice how my jaw keeps clicking when I try to relax.
He says, “You always this tense?”
“Am I tense?” I try to laugh. It sounds like a cough.
Malik doesn’t look away. “You don’t breathe between sentences.”
I let out a long, exaggerated sigh, but it just makes me feel more obvious.
He cracks a smile, the smallest possible concession. “Better.”
After a few bites, I risk a question. “You do this for all the new neighbors, or just the ones who can’t work a washing machine?”
“Only the ones who make good faces,” he says.
I have no idea what that means. He doesn’t explain.
We eat. Eventually, the weirdness softens. He refills my water without asking. I find myself mimicking his posture, elbows on the table, shoulders loose, like maybe if I copy the way he occupies space I’ll figure out how to do it myself.
After the plates are scraped clean, Malik stands and stacks the dishes. I reach for my plate, but he shakes his head. “Sit.”
“I can help.”
“You’ll break the system.” He rinses everything and leaves them on a rack, like he’s not just obsessive but proud of it.
He comes back, wiping his hands on a towel, and jerks his chin toward the living room. “You watch movies?”
I nod, probably too fast. “Yeah. What’s your genre?”
He considers. “Something with explosions. Or subtitles.”
I follow him to the couch, which is black, wide, and could easily seat four. He picks up the remote, then looks at me. “You want to pick?”
“Nah,” I say, “I trust your taste.”
He flips through a few options, lands on something foreign with a lot of gunfire in the preview. “This work?”
“Sure.”
He sits at the end of the couch, sprawled, then pats the space next to him. “Sit wherever.”
I try not to overthink it, but my ass lands closer than strictly necessary. There’s a full two cushions between us and the far end, but I take the one next to his, like maybe I’m auditioning for something.
The opening credits are loud as hell, all synth and slow-motion bullets. I pretend to watch, but I can feel every inch of my body locking up, too aware of how his thigh is a foot from mine, how his scent is even stronger here, a mix of soap and something darker.
After a few minutes, Malik leans forward to grab the water glasses from the table. When he leans back, his arm brushes mine. Not accidental, but not aggressive, either—just a reminder that I have a body, and so does he.
About twenty minutes in, the main character lights a cigarette and says something in rapid French. Malik glances at me, one eyebrow up.
“You speak French?”
I shake my head. “I’m barely fluent in English.”
He grins. “Didn’t peg you for a quitter.”
I open my mouth to defend myself, but the retort dies when his hand lands on my knee. Just a warm, heavy weight, not moving, just there. My throat goes dry.
He says, “You good?”
I nod, but it’s more of a shiver.
His thumb strokes once, slow, through the denim. “You want me to move it?”
I don’t answer right away. My mouth wants to say yes, but my entire nervous system is screaming no, don’t you dare, you’ll die if he stops.
So I shake my head, and it feels like permission.
We sit like that for the rest of the movie. His hand doesn’t move except to tighten when there’s a jump scare or a loud bang on screen. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to make a move, but he just sits, perfectly still, like he’s got all the time in the world.
When the credits roll, the apartment is quiet except for the low hiss of the fridge. He doesn’t remove his hand. He doesn’t even look over, just stares at the screen.
I finally break the silence. “You always this patient?”
He shrugs, but the smile he gives me is real this time. “Only when it matters.”
We sit there a while, not moving, just breathing in sync, his hand warm and grounding on my thigh.
I think about all the ways I could fuck this up, and for once, I don’t.
I can’t tell if it’s a test or an invitation, so I stay still and wait for a cue.
He’s the first to move, killing the TV with a click and turning the room suddenly blue with afterglow. Then he angles toward me, elbow braced over the back of the couch, and the gravity of it pulls my whole body sideways. I meet his eyes, and there’s something in them—amusement, sure, but also a tightness, like he’s holding a door shut against a storm.
He says nothing, just studies my face. Then he reaches up, slow as a dream, and touches his fingertips to my jaw. The heat of his palm is a physical thing, grounding and electric at the same time. He holds me there, just that gentle grip, and says, “You can tell me to stop.”
I nod, barely.
He waits a beat, then leans in, and I realize how long it’s been since anyone bothered to ask for my consent, let alone mean it. His lips brush mine, soft but not tentative, a deliberate pressure that makes my insides pitch and roll.
He kisses me once, then pulls back enough to look at my face. I don’t know what expression I’m making, but it must pass whatever test he’s running, because he goes in again, deeper this time. My breath stutters, and I let my eyes fall shut.
He tastes like mint and something earthy. His tongue is patient but exploratory, coaxing rather than demanding. My hands, useless until now, fist in my own jeans before I dare move them. I rest one on his bicep, then the other on his waist, feeling the tight coil of muscle through the cotton.
He shifts closer, body turned full toward me. I slide my hand higher, into his hair, and feel him smile against my mouth.
The kiss grows teeth, then hunger. Malik bites my bottom lip and I gasp, just a little, enough for him to slip his tongue inside. He doesn’t dominate the space, just fills it, mapping every edge and corner like he’s memorizing the taste.
We break apart to breathe, foreheads pressed together, both of us grinning like idiots.
He murmurs, “You can let go.”
I laugh, nerves shredded. “You say that like I know how.”
He’s quiet, stroking his thumb along my jaw. “I’ll show you.”
I’m not sure if it’s a promise or a warning, but I nod anyway.
He leans in again, hands moving to my waist, drawing me closer until my knees touch his. He kisses me hard, then backs off just enough to catch my reaction. I want to be clever, say something cutting, but my brain is soup.
He slides his hand up my shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin at my hip. I tense, but not because it’s unwelcome—just unpracticed. He pauses, waiting for any hint of a flinch, then flattens his palm against my back and pulls me closer.
He sits back and lets his gaze rake over me, like he’s checking for cracks. Then he pats his lap. “Come here.”
