Chapter Text
The first thing Paulo noticed was the boxes.
Stacked haphazardly in the narrow hallway outside the apartment across from his, they looked like they belonged to someone relocating a small planet. His gaze skimmed the hastily scrawled labels— Books , Kitchen Stuff , Costumes , Misc. (fragile) . Too much stuff for anyone… normal. Too chaotic.
More importantly: too visible.
He adjusted the strap of his messenger bag and kept walking. Curiosity was dangerous. It made people think you were open. Available. Willing to engage. Paulo had spent years perfecting the opposite.
But then the door creaked open.
Out stepped a guy carrying a box labeled Vinyl Records , humming something theatrical. The tune tickled at Paulo’s brain—familiar but just out of reach. The stranger’s hair caught the hallway light and blazed : orange-red, wild, alive. It looked like it had been torn straight out of a fire and dared anyone to comment.
Paulo stopped, blinking. Not because he cared—he didn’t. Just... the light. The noise. The way the guy moved like the world had never told him no.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the hallway was quiet again. Paulo exhaled, annoyed at himself for lingering, and retreated into his apartment. He locked the door with a little more force than usual.
His phone buzzed a second later. He pulled it out, thumb hovering before he gave in.
Pau: new neighbor moved in. owns too many boxes.
Jah: ooooh. tell me more.
Pau: bright orange hair. sings show tunes. keeps weird hours.
Ken: sociable?
Pau: don’t know. don’t care.
Jah: could be hot
Pau: not relevant
(Which was true. Mostly. He wasn’t interested. He just... noticed. That was allowed.)
But over the next few days, noticing turned into tracking patterns. The neighbor— S. Ajero , according to the label hastily taped to the mailbox—had erratic routines. Sometimes he was out late. Sometimes he sang in the stairwell. He never had guests except for one guy who was always in a sharp suit who came by now and then, all confidence and cologne. Probably a boyfriend. Not that Paulo was paying attention. (He absolutely was.)
A week later, Justin and Ken were draped across his couch, half-watching a documentary no one cared about while Paulo sipped coffee like it might save his life.
“So,” Justin said, nudging Paulo’s leg with his foot, “you met the new neighbor yet?”
“No.” Paulo didn’t look up.
“Stell Ajero,” Justin continued, like he was reading from a file. “Theater guy. Sings. Might be famous someday.”
“Good for him.”
Justin snorted. “You’re curious.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.” Justin grinned and stood up.
Paulo stiffened. “Jah. Don’t.”
Too late—Justin was already at the door, knocking like he lived there.
Paulo's stomach dropped. His mind spun with worst-case scenarios. What if Justin said something stupid about him? What if he made Paulo sound like a creep? Or worse, told the truth —that Paulo had been observing, noticing, thinking way too much about someone he’d never met?
Justin returned a moment later looking way too smug.
“What did you do?” Paulo demanded.
“I said hi. Told him we’re neighbors. Mentioned you were curious.”
“You what?” Paulo groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
“Oh, and he’s expecting us. Let’s go.”
“Us?”
Ken stood, stretching like this was all perfectly normal. “Come on. Be neighborly.”
Neighborly. Paulo felt like his bones were trying to crawl out of his body.
Still, somehow, he found himself outside the door across the hall. Justin knocked again, and Paulo could already feel the urge to bolt—back to safety, silence, obscurity.
The door opened.
There he was.
The guy with the fire-halo hair, standing in a top with a neckline that dipped way too low and bare feet. The smile that hit them was unfiltered—too big, too genuine, too much. Like sunlight through an open window, no warning.
“Hi Paupau.”
Paulo blinked.
“Uh—” he started, but his voice cracked in his throat. Paupau? No one called him that. No one dared.
“You must be Paulo,” Stell continued brightly, like they were old friends. “Come in!”
He stepped aside, all invitation and ease, like he didn’t notice Paulo’s stunned silence or awkward posture or the mild panic behind his eyes.
Justin sauntered in. Ken followed. Paulo stood frozen at the threshold.
The hallway felt brighter. Or maybe Stell just was . He filled the space in a way Paulo never could, like it was nothing. Like being seen wasn’t a threat.
Paulo lingered in the doorway. Part of him wanted to retreat—to fade into familiar shadows, to stay forgettable.
But Stell had already seen him.