Chapter Text
The room was filled with boxes and echoed from the lack of furniture. Mike had just moved into his new apartment, and he was already loving it. Floor-to-ceiling windows, white marble countertops, wood floors that didn't look ancient, and the perfect amount of space.
"You sure you're gonna be okay?" Max asked, setting down the final box from the hallway. Mike sat on the floor trying to figure out how to build an IKEA table, parts sprawled across the carpet.
Mike lifted his head up from the instructions paper. “Yeah. Thanks again.”
Lucas grabbed a water from the counter, pointing at Mike. “You owe us drinks.”
“Yeah, yeah. I will once I unpack everything.”
“If you need help, just let us know.” Max said.
Mike waved a hand. “No way. I know you guys would totally snoop through my stuff.”
“True.”
“Okay we’re gonna head out then. Good luck, man.”
And just like that, the door closed. Mike was finally alone. It had been a long day—for someone who doesn't go out much, has the social battery of a newborn, and sucks at talking to strangers. It was exhausting. He ditched the table as soon as Lucas and Max left. It was purely something to make him look busy until they were gone, because there was no way he unpacked with them in the room. His whole sanctuary was in those boxes. His big secret.
Mike was an author.
That was the whole reason he could afford this bougie apartment. Well… not really. He got it dirt cheap for some reason, but he was in too much of a hurry to move out of his old place to ask questions. How could he say no to such an offer in Ithaca, New York? The big N Y without the apple.
The only reason being an author had to stay a secret was simple—his books contained smut. A lot of smut. Hardcore stuff. And if anybody were to find out he was the one writing them? Mike’s life would be over. So he chose the alternative route. A woman’s name.
Marianne Weller.
He chose a woman's name for practical reasons—women read his books. Men who write romance novels didn’t move units in the same way. He also just wanted something that looked good in serif font.
So when Max and Lucas offered to help—or force their help—it was an absolute nightmare to gather all the printed manuscripts, contracts and marketing proofs out of sight. Anything that had words on it, were hidden.
The entire time they were unpacking, Mike watched Max specifically like a hawk. She’d already been on his ass for keeping a secret, but Mike was trying to keep it under the rug for as long as possible at the very least. He was lucky Max wasn’t a reader, being too busy in pre-med—dodging her almost completely. On the other hand, Lucas, he… just can’t read.
On top of the exhaustion of moving, he had a deadline coming up for his new book.
“His to Keep”
It was his third novel of his career but also… his first book that centered on two men.
And it was filthy. Probably his filthiest work yet — the kind that required three separate emails from his editor asking if chapter twenty-three really needed to be “quite that detailed.”
Fortunately, the book was about ninety percent finished. All that was left was approving the last minute edits and stalking the pre-order numbers. No big deal.
At least he wished it were no big deal.
There was only four weeks left until the release, and no time to put away any boxes, let alone build that silly IKEA table. Mike would bet his Gmail inbox was full of editor emails and preorder updates.
He told himself he’d unpack first. He even stood in the living room, hoping he might get possessed to finish everything.
But his laptop was in his hands, heavy and warm, and his body already knew where it wanted to go. Which was the “bedroom.” Except, it was really only a separate space with a door at the moment. It still had the fresh aroma of cardboard and new paint. Delicious.
A narrow strip of moonlight cut across the floor. Mike stepped over a half-opened box, found the only clear patch of space on the bed, and sat down.
But it wasn’t a bed. Just a naked mattress on the floor. Not that he cared.
He cracked the laptop open and the glow washed his face blue-white.
Trackpad. Google out of habit. Then Gmail.
Fourteen unread emails.
Fuck.
…
- Clara (Senior Editor) — Quick clarification on kitchen scene — Yesterday, 9:14 PM
- Legal — RE: Contract — signature needed (again) — Yesterday, 6:41 PM
- Publicity — Metadata request: “Marianne Weller” author bio (75 words max) — Yesterday, 3:18 PM
- Design — Cover proof attached — FINAL FINAL (v6) — Yesterday, 1:02 PM
- Editorial — Content warning language — please approve — Yesterday, 12:37 PM
- Marketing — Amazon category update: confirm keywords — Yesterday, 11:50 AM
…
Mike wanted to scream.
Technically the book was finished.
He clicked on the first email.
Hi Marianne,
Mike blinked at the name, sounding like it should belong to someone more put together than a 24-year-old guy sitting cross-legged on a bare mattress. He thought he would've been used to it by now.
He skimmed.
I did want to circle back to the kitchen scene beginning around page 312. I completely understand the escalation you’re going for, and the character work there is excellent, but I’m wondering if we might consider whether every beat needs quite that level of… detail.
Specifically the counter sequence and what follows immediately after.
Right now the scene runs close to twelve pages, and while I appreciate the commitment to realism, we may want to make sure the emotional climax isn’t competing with the physical choreography.
Mike closed his eyes, scratching his head.
Twelve pages…
What was wrong with twelve pages of physical choreography.
He'd written longer. Way longer. And nobody complained when it was two characters trapped in a thunderstorm with nothing but body heat and poor decision-making skills.
But all of a sudden it’s a problem when there’s physical choreography and a counter.
“Outrageous.” His eyes snapped corner of his laptop.
12:22 am.
Mike hadn't eaten since the morning.
He glanced at the boxes stacked against the wall—one of them definitely had his ramen stash somewhere. But the thought of digging through cardboard right now made him want to curl up and pretend food wasn't a biological necessity.
Mike sighed, closing his laptop, looking around at the mess surrounding him.
McDonalds awaits.
He grabbed his keys, heading out the door.
The air was damp and cold, smelling of wet pavement. It was mostly quiet but not peaceful—sparse. A car swished by. An engine hummed far off in the distance. Wind rustled through the falling leaves. It was typical fall weather.
But it was too much.
For Mike, at least. The streetlights glared in his eyes. It was way too cold to be wearing just a hoodie—but he'd decided to "be a man" and raw dog the cold weather. The group of guys across the street made him wonder why the fuck are there people outside right now. I thought this was a small town. But nothing was stopping him from getting the McChicken combo with large fries and a root beer.
By the time he got home, it was already near one in the morning.
He entered his room, dragging the laptop with him and sat on the cold hardwood floor, because he was not risking getting the forbidden fast-food grease on his poor excuse for a bed. He ruffled the bag open, grabbing his sandwich and fries with no hesitation to stuff them in his mouth.
Mike skimmed through the rest of his emails (with his greasy fingers), telling himself he’ll approve one change and start unpacking the manuscripts at the very least.
He started re-reading the “physical choreography” his editor mentioned, and couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
"Twelve pages," Mike muttered, scrolling through the scene again. "Twelve. Fucking. Pages."
He shoved a fry in his mouth.
"You know what? She's wrong. This is art." He gestured at the screen with a half-eaten McChicken. "This is cinema."
He reread a particularly detailed paragraph.
"Okay. Maybe the counter thing goes on a little long. But that's the point. That's the—" He paused. "No. No, it's fine. It's perfect."
Another fry. Another scroll.
"…God, she's gonna make me cut it, isn't she."
He clicked "accept changes" like he was signing a death warrant.
"People are gonna miss out," he said, shaking his head. "They're gonna read this and think, 'Wow, this is hot,' and they'll have no idea it could've been hotter. A complete twelve pages of golden filth."
He bit into his sandwich.
"RIP to the counter scene. You were too powerful for this world."
Mike snapped the laptop shut. “Okay,” he said to no one. “Sleep.”
He stood up, shoving all the garbage into the McDonalds paper bag, throwing in onto the floor for tomorrow.
He wiped the leftover finger grease onto the sleeves of his hoodie, making his way to the sad mattress, shoving away all of the boxes invading the space. His eyes darted around the room for a blanket, grabbing the first one he saw—a blanket used for decoration. He shrugged, slid off his sweater and plopped back onto the bed.
Mike stared at the ceiling.
Then closed his eyes.
Waited.
He couldn’t sleep.
Of course he couldn’t.
His god-awful sleeping schedule consisted of him sleeping at five in the morning and waking up at noon—sometimes later.
Mike rolled onto his side, pulling the decorative blanket—which was doing absolutely nothing for warmth—tighter around himself. His mind was already spinning back to the manuscript. The counter scene. The twelve pages of "physical choreography" he'd just agreed to cut down.
What if the pacing feels off now? What if the readers notice something's missing?
He grabbed his phone from the floor. It was late. Still hours to go before his body would even consider shutting down.
Maybe he should've unpacked the bed frame. Or at least found the actual blankets. Or—
Thud.
He thought he imagined it. Thought that he might’ve just fallen asleep just then and was in dream mode hearing things.
Thud.
There it was again.
It wasn’t even a harsh sound, it was almost soft, like the walls were almost doing the job of keeping rooms separate.
It could’ve easily been his neighbour moving something.
He closed his eyes again.
See there was nothing—
Thud.
Mike ripped the blanket off of him. “Maybe this is a sign. Maybe the universe just wants me to not break my sleep schedule, right?” He muttered. His sat knees bent on the mattress, rubbing the sides of his head.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The noises got faster. Rhythmically. Mike lifted his head from his hands, looking around eyebrows tight. And then—
“Mmph—”
No way.
Mike paused, then kept moving. The walls were thin—sure. Okay. Obviously the neighbour was just having a hard time moving furniture... It was easily just maybe the back of a chair, maybe somebody’s heel.
At nearly three in the morning.
Maybe it was just—
“Ungh…”
Mike froze.
No. There's no way.
His eyes darted across his bed.
That's the shared wall.
He needed to confirm. He had to be wrong.
Mike stood up from the mattress, heart pounding stupidly fast. He crossed the room in three long strides, weaving around boxes until he reached the far wall.
Mike walked over, placed his hand against it.
Cold. Solid. Exterior wall. The window was right there.
Then, he leaned his head—hesitantly—slowly onto the wall, ear pressed up against the drywall.
“Ah—Please—”
His hands flew to his mouth. "Oh my god," he whispered, "Oh my god."
He backed away from the wall like it had been a biohazard.
The voice wasn’t even loud but—breathy, soft, almost pleading. It sounded so desperate it made Mike’s stomach twist and something lower clench.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Do not do this. Do not. You can’t do this to me just from that. That was barely anything.
His dick was already traitorously hard, pressing uncomfortably against the waistband of his boxers. He shifted, trying to make it go away just by ignoring it.
Think about—think about that email from your editor. Oh my god, we’re so upset about the counter scene—wait, too soon. Think about literally anything else.
Thud. Thud.
A low, drawn-out moan that ended in a shaky whimper.
Nope. Not working.
Mike straightened immediately, “Okay. Cold Shower. Cold showers fix everything. Like in the movies.” He muttered it like a mantra as he stumbled towards the bathroom, nearly tripping over a box labeled “FRAGILE” on the way.
The water came out arctic. He hissed as it hit his shoulder, goosebumps erupting everywhere. He stood under the spray, teeth chattering, arms wrapped around himself like that would help. See? Fixed. Crisis averted. I am a pillar of self-control.
Except he wasn’t.
Even with the water pounding against his skin and his brain screaming how cold it was, his cock stayed stubbornly interested, twitching every time his mind replayed the last little “please” from next door. He could still hear the thuds from the bathroom—faint now with the running water and two walls, but unmistakable. The rhythm didn’t slow.
Mike groaned, forehead hitting against the tile. “This is ridiculous. I’ve been here less than a day and I’m already—fuck.”
He wrapped a hand around himself on reflex just to… adjust. That was all. Just adjusting.
One stroke. Slow…
The relief was immediate and humiliating.
He yanked his hand away like he’d been burned. “No. No no no. We are not doing this. I am not jerking off to my neighbours—whatever this is—on night one. That’s ridiculous.”
He turned the water even colder if that was even possible.
Two minutes later he was still hard, shivering, and swearing under his breath. The movies were liars. Fakes. He was never trusting information from movies again.
Then something in him snapped. He couldn’t do it anymore.
"Fine," he snapped to the empty bathroom. “Fine. But this is a one-time thing. Emergency measure. Stress relief. Whatever.”
He shut off the water, grabbed a towel he didn’t bother wrapping around himself, and stalked back to the mattress on the floor. Dropped onto his back, and stared at the ceiling.
The noises were clearer here. Closer.
Mike closed his eyes. One hand slid down his stomach hesitant, then wrapped around his length again. He bit his lip hard enough to hurt.
He gave one slow, experimental stroke and immediately regretted every life choice that led to this moment.
It felt wrong—God—so wrong.
It also felt good.
He turned over onto his side, toward the window, cheek pressing against the cool mattress, listening like the world’s most pathetic voyeur. The neighbour’s rhythm was relentless—soft thuds, breathy little gasps that sounded way too good to be bleeding through the other side of cheap drywall. His cursed imagination supplied unhelpful visuals: fingers gripping sheets, hips rocking—stop it, stop helping.
“Shit,” he hissed, pace picking up against his better judgement. “This is so sad. I’m literally getting off to ambient neighbour porn on day one. I should be writing. Or unpacking. Or at least pretending to have standards.”
Next door the sounds hitched—faster, needier. A choked whimper that went straight to Mike’s gut.
He groaned, low and defeated. “Of course you’re loud and hot-sounding. Of course I’m the guy who moves into the building with paper-thin walls and a dick that has a mind of it’s own. Amazing. Perfect. Truly living the dream.”
His free hand clawed at the blanket. Hips jerked up before he could stop them. The mental image refused to leave: whoever was over there, arching, gasping, completely unaware they had an audience of one extremely embarrassed twenty-four-year-old with zero chill.
Mike came hard, sudden and blinding, spilling all over his fist with a strangled sound he barely swallowed. His entire body locked up, then melted, chest heaving.
Ten glorious seconds of nothing but his own ragged breathing and the distant hum of the wind blowing outside.
Then, soft and unmistakable through the wall: A quiet, contented sigh. The kind that said mission accomplished, lights out, goodnight.
He wanted to lay in traffic.
Mike stared out the window, come cooling on his hand. He needed to wipe that off. Maybe find an actual blanket. But the mortification crashed into him like a tidal wave. He really just jerked off that easily to those moans through the walls. He could’ve been writing, unpacking boxes—literally anything else.
“…I’m moving tomorrow,” he whispered to himself.
That night, Mike thought it was his time. He saw light. A light that felt like it grabbed him. Maybe he should’ve gone to church after all. Attend those Sunday services and confess his sins. Gone too soon—was what he expected to see from hell, because that was exactly where he was going after getting off that easily.
Instead, it was actually just the sun glaring through the tall windows he thought he loved, waking him up.
There were constant knocks at his door. He reached for his phone for the time, reading 2 PM.
“No fucking way I slept that long…”
He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the blinding sun that he swore caused actual blindness for a few minutes. The knocks continued. He grabbed his pants from the floor and slid them on as he hopped toward the door. There was no time for a shirt.
If he made plans with Max and Lucas, he didn’t remember anything—unless they were just showing up to his place unannounced which wouldn’t be the least bit surprising.
Mike opened the door, finger rubbing at his eye, squinting.
“Hi—I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
It was a boy with… cookies. He was basically drowning in a baggy grey sweater and black sweatpants that were clearly at least one size too big, but somehow managed to look criminally good. Fun sized.
Mike dropped his hand. “Uh—No. no, not at all.”
“Oh—okay. My name’s Will. I wanted to introduce myself. I live just next door.”
Next door.
Next…
Door?
At that moment, Mike basically blue-screened. He couldn't answer. He just stared at this boy’s thumb pointing to the side—where Mike's bedroom connected to that sin called a wall.
It was his worst nightmare. At first, he wasn’t sure if the voice he was hearing last night was a man or a woman—not that it mattered. But now he realized—the voice from last night and Will's voice were unmistakably the same. And now, he had a face to put to the voice. Which made everything so much worse.
“Um…” Will hesitated, waiting for Mike to answer.
But he was too far gone. Shell shocked even—that he somehow forgot he was supposed to reply to the person standing right in front of him.
“I just made some cookies. As like—a welcome gift. Just chocolate chip. Unless you don’t like sweets—”
Oh my god. He’s cute too.
No.
This was bad. Like, ‘my computer just got a virus and now it’s evil laughing at me with monkeys jumping around the screen’ type of bad.
Mike just stood there with his mouth hanging open, being an easy entrance for the universe to spit in.
“Do you not like sweets? I know some people don’t like sweets, like cookies.”
Mike finally re-entered his body, grabbing the container of cookies from Will’s hands. “No. I love cookies. Thank you.” He said stiffly.
Will smiled.
No—don’t do that to me.
Mike had to physically look away. He was fighting for his life. Mid-battle. Front lines.
“Awesome. I hope you like them.” Will looked past Mike, seeing the mess of unpacked and half opened boxes and—
“Do you like reading?”
Mike didn’t even think. “No.”
Will looked confused. Of course he did. “Oh—I just saw a bunch of books behind you—not that I meant to snoop or anything.”
Mike glanced behind him. Fuck. Then back to Will. “They’re—stolen.”
Mike needed to close the door immediately. He may as well just strapped himself to some train tracks, because what the fuck was he saying right now. Stolen?
Out of everything he could’ve said.
“Stolen…?”
“Yes—no. I mean—it was a joke.” Mike awkwardly laughed. As if he couldn’t have made things worse. “Anyways. Thank you. For the cookies.”
“Right—yeah of course. Anytime.”
And then Mike closed the door on Will’s face.
I’m so fucked.
He panicked, obviously. Mike has always been awkward—but this was next level.
Why did I snatch these cookies like some kind of feral raccoon? What if he thinks I'm a cookie bandit and calls the police? "Yes officer, the shirtless man in 3B aggressively took my baked goods." I hate reading? HATE READING? I'm a literal WRITER. And then—THEN—I casually dropped grand theft literature into the conversation like it was normal small talk. "Oh yeah, nice to meet you too, I steal books for fun." Fantastic. Incredible. I should just leave the country.
His head leaned against the door, staring down at the cookies.
Then the adrenaline hit him like a freight train.
Mike set the cookies down on the counter—carefully, like they might explode if handled wrong—and then just… stood there. Staring at his apartment. At the disaster zone of cardboard and bubble wrap and half-assembled furniture that suddenly felt like a drive-by.
Nope. Can't live like this. Not anymore. Not when HE lives next door.
He grabbed the nearest box—labeled "KITCHEN" in his own chicken-scratch handwriting—and ripped it open with more force than necessary. Plates. Bowls. Mugs that said things like "World's Okayest Writer" that Max had bought him back when he was still majoring English. He shoved them into cabinets without thinking about organization. That could come later. Right now, he just needed to move.
He attacked the IKEA table next. The one he'd abandoned last night in favour of… other things. He didn't want to think about other things. He grabbed the screwdriver, found the instructions crumpled under another box, and went to work. Legs attached. Tabletop secured. It wobbled slightly, but it was done.
"Look at that. Furniture. I have furniture now."
Next box. "BOOKS." Of course. The stolen ones, apparently. He grabbed a handful—fiction paperbacks, non-fiction he'd never finished, random poetry collections from college—and lined them up on the built-in shelves by the window. Just enough to make the living room look lived-in, like he actually read for fun.
"This is fine," he muttered to himself, already sweating. "This is totally normal behavior. People unpack when they move in. That's what you're supposed to do. I'm just doing it now instead of… later. Very reasonable."
The rest of the box, though… he carried that one straight to the bedroom.
Inside were the author copies. The Marianne Weller books. Three different titles, multiple copies of each, all with his name printed on the spine. He shoved the box under the bed frame he'd just assembled, then hesitated. That wasn't hidden enough. He pulled it back out, opened his closet, and wedged it in the back corner behind a duffel bag and winter coats he wouldn't need for months.
There. Out of sight. No one would know.
The bedroom was next. First, he had to deal with the bed frame—another IKEA nightmare still flat-packed in the corner. He tore open the box, spread the parts across the floor, and got to work. Headboard. Side rails. Support slats. He tightened every screw with grim determination, double-checking the instructions twice because the last thing he needed was for the whole thing to collapse in the middle of the night.
Once the frame was assembled and stable, he dragged the mattress from the floor—where it had been living like it was in some kind of sad ghost house—and heaved it onto the frame with a grunt. It landed crooked. He shoved it into place, then made the bed with sheets he hadn't bothered with last night. Pillows fluffed. Blanket straightened. He had even tucked in the corners so well he would've thought his mom did it.
By the time he'd hung up clothes and arranged his desk setup, it was almost 8 PM. The apartment looked… lived in. Like a real person actually stayed here.
Mike sprawled out on his freshly made bed—actual sheets, actual pillows, the whole shebang. He even managed to throw on a shirt, finally.
"There," he said to the ceiling. "See? Totally fine. Completely normal. I can face him now. I can face anyone. I'm a functional adult with an organized living space and emotional stability."
His phone buzzed. Max.
Max:
how's the new place? not buried under boxes yet?
Mike:
actually just unpacked everything
Max:
WHAT
in one day???
are you okay
Mike:
yeah. just got motivated.
He did not mention the cookies. Or the neighbour. Or the fact that his motivation was purely fuelled by humiliation and panic.
Some things were better left unsaid.
He closed his eyes, arms falling to his sides as his phone slipped from his hand. Now sprawled out, starfish style. Mike had never been so actively motivated towards anything except a new plot for one of his books. And now it was finally done—
Mike’s eyes opened. Stared at the ceiling.
Will.
God. Soft brown hair, shy smile those eyes that crinkled at the corners when he handed over the container of cookies like it was no big deal. “Hey, I’m Will from next door. Here’s some cookies.” What an angel. A saint, really.
Exhaustion hit like a truck. The bed was positioned perfectly against the wall—the unshared wall. Meaning, when Mike looks straight ahead—
A faint memory flickered. Thud. Moan. That breathy “please” from last night.
Mike froze.
“Oh no,” he whispered to the empty room. “No, brain, we are not doing this right now.”
But his brain, the traitor, did it anyway. The sounds replayed in high definition: soft thuds against the wall, rhythmic, building. The low whimper that had punched him right in the gut. And now he knew the face attached to it—Will’s face. Sweet, cookie-baking Will, who probably had no idea his late-night… whatever… had turned Mike into a flustered mess.
A twitch. Down there.
Mike’s eyes widened. “No. Absolutely not.” He sat up ramrod straight, like that would scare the blood back north. But no. His dick, overeager asshole, stirred anyway—thickening, insistent, like it had zero regard for timing or basic human decency.
This is the curse, he thought wildly, hands fisting the comforter. The big dick tax. High testosterone or whatever bullshit biology decided to saddle me with. One stray thought and boom—nine inches of ‘hello, we’re open and ready to move’ whether I want it or not. It was ridiculous. Embarrassing. He thought it was a universal experience for all guys, then he found out he was above average. He’d read about it once in some forum thread during a late-night spiral (not that he was researching himself, obviously), guys complaining about easy arousal like it was a superpower gone wrong. Pros: impresses partners. Cons: spontaneous boners at the worst possible moments, like right now, in a silent apartment, fixated on the guy next door who he’d just met and already humiliated himself in front of.
He shifted, trying to adjust without touching—because he refused to admit defeat. But the fabric of his boxers dragged just right (wrong), and he bit back a loud groan. Already half-hard, swelling fast, like his body was tuned to the frequency of that damn wall.
“Panic mode,” Mike muttered, scrambling off the bed. He paced the room—three steps to the window, three back—waiting for it to go down. Think unsexy thoughts. Twelve pages of glory taken away. My editor accidentally sending me her grocery list. Max sending that disgusting picture of Lucas’ leg.
Thud.
Wait. Was that real?
He paused, shooting upward, ear tilting toward the wall. Silence. But the damage was done—full mast now, straining against his sweats like a divining rod painting straight to disaster.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.” He dropped back onto the bed, face in his hands. What if Will could hear him? What is this was mutual thin-wall hell? What if he had to face Cute Neighbour tomorrow with the knowledge that he’d popped a boner just thinking about his voice?
Mike groaned into the pillow one last time, then rolled off. The boner wasn’t going anywhere fast, but sitting there stewing in his own embarrassment wasn’t helping either. He needed a distraction. Something normal. Something that didn’t involve thin walls or cooking-bearing neigbhours or his traitorous dick.
Food. Yeah. Food was safe.
He padded into the kitchen, his grey sweatpants and boxers that were doing a piss-poor of a job containing the situation. The fridge opened with that sad little whoosh of disappointment people only get when they already know what’s inside.
Nothing.
“Seriously?” Mike muttered, holding the door open like maybe if he glared long enough a sandwich would spawn. “I unpacked everything except, the will to live like a functioning adult.”
Max told him, too. He hated she was right. But the words echoed in his mind like the world’s most annoying conscience. Max, standing in his old kitchen with her arms crossed, saying: Oh my god, are you serious? Just put it in a bag. One bag.
He’d thrown them out anyway.
The door was shut harder than necessary. The sound echoed through the quiet apartment, mocking him.
Grocery shopping. At—what time was it?—he glanced at his phone: 8:30 PM. Still early enough that something would be open.
He could order delivery. But that required more money, and also deciding what to eat, and right now his brain was too scrambled to pick between burritos and sushi without spiralling into “what if Will hears the delivery guy and thinks I’m a slob?”
No. Grocery store. In-person. Prove to himself he could be a normal human who brought normal human food.
Mike yanked a hoodie that smelled faintly of cardboard, and shoes without socks because who had time for socks right now. He grabbed his keys, wallet, phone—paused at the door.
What if he ran into Will in the hallway?
What if Will was also going grocery shopping?
What if Will saw him like this—hair sticking to his forehead from his cardio of unpacking, or face still flushed from the earlier panic, looking like he’d been doing… exactly what he’d been doing?
Mike pressed his forehead to the doorframe. “You are a grown ass man. You can buy milk without having a nervous breakdown.”
Deep breath.
He opened the door.
Hallway empty. Thank fuck.
He locked up, took the stairs two at a time (elevator would give him too much time to overthink), and burst out into the cool night air.
The corner market was only four blocks away. Bright fluorescent light, automatic doors that whooshed open. He grabbed a basket, moved on autopilot: bread, milk, eggs, peanut butter and some sad-looking bananas because he was trying to be somewhat healthy for once, and frozen pizza for emergencies.
He passed by the bakery section, eyeing the desserts and then—cookies. Wait, the container. Mike still had the cookies in his kitchen sitting on the counter, but he still had to give the container back. To Will. He couldn’t just give it back empty. He would look like a douchebag. Do I make something? No, I suck at baking. Would he mind if I bought it? It’s fine. It’s just to return the container.
His eyes washed over the dessert case—croissants with almonds and chocolate, tiny cakes with mini fruits on top, and brownies dusted with sea salt and slivers of chocolate.
Then he saw them.
A matte black box tied with a stupid little ribbon, the label in minimalist gold font: MACARONS — assorted.
They looked cool. Expensive cool. Like something rich people ate while judging you silently. He scanned the box’s flavour tags.
Rosewater Lychee.
Lavender Honey.
Salted Caramel Buttercream.
Perfect.
Mike grabbed the box before his brain could form an opinion. They looked pretty. He had no idea which flavours were considered normal. That was all that mattered. Baking was not an option. Baking required flour. And an oven. And the kind of confidence that said I preheat.
He tossed it into the basket and kept moving like he hadn’t just bought a dessert for a stranger.
At the checkout, the cashier gave him a look.
“Special occasion?” She asked.
Mike panicked. What was he supposed to say, they’re for the Cute Neighbour that I spoke to for three minutes?
“I’m returning a container.” He dead-panned.
The cashier blinked. "Right." She scanned the macarons without another word.
Outside, the night air hit him again—cooler now, sharper. Mike clutched the paper bag against his chest, the box of macarons sitting at the top like a beacon of his own poor decision-making. He walked fast, head down, praying the four blocks back would be uneventful.
They were. Until he reached his floor.
Mike clutched the paper bag tighter as the elevator dinged open on his floor. He stepped out, already rehearsing the world’s most casual “hey, neighbour” in his head—just in case.
And there he was.
Cute Neighbour. Cookie boy. Will.
Leaning against his own doorframe, phone in one hand, keys dangling from the other like he’d been mid-text and decided the hallway was a fine place to finish it. Soft overhead light caught the edges of his hair, making the dark curls look unfairly soft. He looked up at the sound of the elevator doors sliding shut.
Their eyes met.
Mike’s brain did the thing where it blue-screened so hard he could practically hear the Windows error chime.
Will’s gaze dropped immediately to the long black bakery box—stupidly fancy looking compared to the paper bag. A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of Will’s mouth.
“Going somewhere?” Will asked, voice soft, casual as if they were old friends bumping into each other at the mailbox.
Mike’s mouth opened.
“No.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
No? That was it? Not "just got back" or "groceries" or literally any other combination of words that would've made him sound like a person who'd spoken to another human before?
Will's smile widened—just a fraction, but enough to make Mike want to crawl into the paper bag and live there forever.
"Cool," Will said simply. "Well, uh—enjoy your…" His eyes flicked to the bakery box again, clearly trying not to laugh. "…night."
Silence stretched for half a second—long enough for Mike to register that he was still standing in the hallway like an idiot, blocking the path, holding a bag of shame-macaron evidence, while Cute Neighbour stared at him with patience, unfairly pretty eyes.
Mike took a jerky step sideways towards his own door. "I should—yeah. Unpack the… perishables." He managed, voice cracking slightly on the last word because his body had apparently decided tonight was the night to betray him in every possible way.
He fumbled his keys out of his pocket. They slipped. He caught them mid-air in a move so clumsy it looked practiced. Will’s smile twitched wider.
“Night,” Will said, holding back a laugh. He gave a little wave and disappeared back into his apartment, door clicking shut softly behind him.
Mike stood frozen in the hallway, grocery bag cutting into his arm, bakery box balanced precariously on top.
No.
I said NO.
Like I was being QUESTIONED BY THE POLICE.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to rewind time. He wanted to go back to the elevator and try again with literally any other response. "Just got groceries!" "Yeah, long day!" "Oh hey, still loving those cookies by the way!"—ANYTHING would've been better than the single, dead-eyed syllable he'd just delivered like a malfunctioning robot.
He shoved his way into his apartment. The door shut behind him with a dull thud.
He set the groceries down on the counter. Stared at the bakery box. Then at the ceiling.
"No," he said out loud, to no one, mocking himself. "NO. What is wrong with you?"
His phone buzzed. Max.
Max:
how's the new place? made any friends yet or are u hiding like a hermit?
Mike typed back without thinking.
Mike:
i just told my hot neighbour "no" when he asked if i was going somewhere
i was holding groceries
it was obvious i'd been somewhere
Max:
LMAOOOOO
mike what the fuck
HOT neighbour????????
Mike groaned and tossed his phone onto the couch, looking back to the macarons.
“We made eye contact…”
After putting away the “perishables” he shoved the emergency frozen pizza into the oven. It was definitely an emergency.
The timer went off. The pizza came out. The laptop came out. And Mike sat on the couch, because if he sat in his room his eyes would be glued to the wall the entire time, listening for any sign of life next door like some auditory stalker.
He placed the tray of pizza onto the table—glass, by the way, because Mike likes to live dangerously—and sank back into the couch. Laptop flipped open. Slice in hand. The illusion of productivity.
The Gmail was the first thing opened. Of course it was.
Twelve unread emails.
Fuck.
His inbox looked like a crime scene.
- Clara (Senior Editor) — Quick clarification on kitchen scene — Today, 5:14 PM
- Marketing Team — Preorder report — Week 2 update — Today, 3:02 PM
- Clara (Senior Editor) — URGENT — Page 312 Adjustment — Today, 12:47 PM
- Auto-Reply — Your rent payment is scheduled — Today, 12:01 AM
…
Mike stared at it for a second like maybe he could will the emails into unsending themselves.
He clicked on his editors newest one because there was no escaping her.
…
Subject: Character motivation — quick clarification
Hi Marianne,
One small question before we finalize copy edits on chapters 19–20.
In the bedroom confrontation, when Aidan pulls back instead of escalating, is the hesitation rooted in guilt or control? The beat reads intentionally ambiguous, but I want to be sure we’re guiding the reader in the right direction.
If it’s control, we may want to sharpen the interior line so it feels deliberate rather than uncertain.
Let me know your intent there.
Best,
Clara
…
Mike stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box.
He typed: it’s control. obviously.
Then he stopped, because that was Mike. That was him—greasy-fingered, still tasting freezer pizza, sounding like he was arguing in a comment section.
He highlighted the whole thing and deleted it in one violent swipe. Marianne didn’t do “obviously.” Marianne did certainty. Marianne did restraint. He sat up a little straighter, hoping posture could summon a different personality, cracked his knuckles, and started again.
……
Subject: Re: Character motivation — quick clarification
Hi Clara,
It’s control.
Aidan doesn’t hesitate because he’s unsure — he hesitates because he knows exactly what he’s capable of. Pulling back isn’t weakness. It’s restraint.
If he escalates in that moment, he removes the other character’s agency. The tension works because he chooses not to.
I’ll sharpen the interior line so that intention reads clearly on the page.
Best,
Marianne
…
He hit send.
He told himself he’d stop there.
He did not stop there.
He kept clicking, replying, approving, deleting, rewriting—until the words stopped looking like words.
When he finally leaned back, his neck was stiff and the pizza was gone, the clock in the corner of his screen read:
1:50 AM.
Mike stared at it.
He’d promised himself he was going to fix his sleep schedule when he moved. New apartment. New routine. No more falling asleep at four in the morning and waking up at noon with the disorientation of a Victorian ghost.
And yet here he was.
“Shit.” He closed the laptop, setting it on the table and headed into the room—and actual room now. With an actual bed, and sheets—it was all perfect. He swapped out of his clothes just leaving himself with just a pair of shorts on, getting underneath the sheets. The scent was full of laundry detergent.
He closed his eyes. exhaled.
Thud.
His eyes shot open.
No.
Thud.
He dragged his hands over his face. “This can’t be real. This is fake. I’m dreaming right now.”
There was a faint moan through the wall. Too clear. Too soft. Unmistakably Cute Neighbour, Will.
Mike's chest caved in. Because now he had a face to go with the voice. Those gentle brown eyes. That outfit—baggy sweater with cuffs hiding most of his hands—that had no business working the way it did. The quiet "Night" that kept replaying in Mike's head.
And now that voice was making those same breathy, needy sounds again.
Mike's stomach dropped. Because Will—sweet, soft-spoken, cookie-baking Will—probably had people lined up for this. The guy probably had a whole rotation.
He could picture it too easily: someone confident, pinning Will against the mattress, drawing out those exact moans.
His stomach twisted—sharp, ugly, and disgustingly jealous.
He hated it instantly.
He had no right to feel possessive. They’d barely spoken twice. Will didn’t owe him anything. Didn’t even know Mike existed beyond “new awkward neighbour who can’t string sentences together.”
And yet.
The thought of someone else being the reason for those sounds—someones else’s hands, mouth, whatever—made Mike want to punch the wall.
Another moan slipped through, longer this time, edged with a whine that hit Mike like a freight train.
His dick throbbed in response, full commitment now. Damage had been done.
“Great,” Mike muttered, voice cracking. “Now I’m jealous and hard. Peak performance, Wheeler.”
He pressed his face into the pillow and groaned—half frustrated, half surrender.
“Is this my life now?” He whispered into the fabric. “Living next to the guy everyone wants, listening to him get railed by someone who isn’t me, and getting stupidly jealous about it while my dick acts like a villain in a horror movie—relentless, unavoidable, haunting me."
Another thud. Another soft, broken sound.
Mike’s hips shifted without permission.
This is so fucked.
And the worst part? He hadn’t even touched himself yet.
But the night was young. The wall was thin.
And Will—god help him—was still going.
Mike squeezed his eyes shut and tried, desperately, to think about anything else.
It didn’t work.
Not even a little.