I was just casually walking down the hallway like I owned it.
Okay, maybe a little more than casually.
Maybe with a slight, intentional sway.
Maybe checking my nails a bit too often like i'm waiting for a compliment from the walls.
Maybe doing that thing where i angle my phone just right so it looks like i'm FaceTiming someone—but I'm really just filming a slow-mo montage of myself walking in my robe like i'm the final girl in a K-drama whose husband faked his death
.
Not that i care if he sees me.
Please. As if.
I'm just... you know, being friendly. Subtle. Mysteriously glowy. Effortlessly charming.
Ugh. I hate how long this hallway is.
Why is it so... hallway-ish? Who designed this—Voldemort?
And why is the lighting so off?
I deserve to be lit like a movie star, not like a supermarket freezer aisle.
I adjust the strap of my silk robe (yes, robe—it's aesthetic), flip my hair dramatically over one shoulder, and continue pacing like i have paparazzi to dodge and scandal to deny.
My latte is still warm in my hand, which is honestly the only thing going right today.
I had zero plans except maybe to attempt boiling water again without causing a city-wide blackout.
And then—BOOM.
Like, literally. A deep, manly, earth-shaking BOOM that stops me mid-strut like a pageant queen whose name wasn't called.
"What the f—"
My head snaps toward the noise.
1706.
Him.
Mr. Moved-In-Yesterday-And-Already-Thinks-He's-Too-Mysterious-For-Human-Interaction.
Seriously?! Already?
Didn't the building manager say his unit was soundproofed?
"Racing simulators," they said.
"Modified walls," they said.
"Quiet as a whisper," they said.
Well, guess what, Karen? I just got whispered into a cardiac episode.
Fueled by justified rage (and two shots of espresso), I stomp—yes, stomp, with full telenovela intensity, toward his door and knock like it owes me money and an apology.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Shirtless.
Tall.
Moody.
Built like a sin I almost want to commit.
Hair all tousled like he just came from a Vogue survival shoot in the woods.
Eyes like iced coffee with no sweetener.
I almost forget why i'm mad.
Almost.
"What is that noise?" I demand, hands on hips, nails glinting like weapons.
"Do you know i have delicate eardrums? That boom almost sent me into the next dimension."
He just... blinks at me.
Slowly. Like i'm a pop-up ad he's too tired to close.
"I just woke up," he says, voice low and gravelly like it moonlights as a bass guitar. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Pause.
Oh my god.
The Heater.
THE WATER.
"Sh*t! The water!"
I spin on my slipper like i'm doing the pirouette of shame and race back to my unit.
Door slams open.
I sprint to the kitchen.
Steam.
Chaos.
The kettle? Gone.
The countertop? Looks like it got dumped by its long-time boyfriend.
A tiny piece of melted plastic hisses at me from the corner like it blames me for existing.
"OH MY GOSH," I cry, flailing my arms like that will fix anything. "My kitchen is dying!"
I look around in pure panic.
Phone. Where's my—
There! I grab it and dial the building manager like i'm reporting a fire (which, honestly, might still happen).
"Hi, yes, emergency, my kettle exploded. There's steam. There's trauma. I am emotionally and physically unequipped to deal with this. Do you see these nails? Water is the enemy!"
No questions asked.
They're used to me.
Honestly, they should be paying me for adding this much entertainment value to the building.
Three minutes later, two maintenance guys arrive looking like i just summoned them from a reality show about hot plumbers.
They fix everything in record time.
I barely get a chance to document the tragedy for my Instagram story.
"I will never boil water again," I announce, collapsing onto the couch like a heiress who's just been betrayed by her trust fund.
And then, of course, I see him.
Mr. Brooding Race Boy.
Leaning on the doorframe like life personally wronged him.
He's holding a protein shake like it insulted him.
He looks at me like I'm the explosion.
"Next time," he says, "maybe check your own drama before knocking on someone else's door."
Then—slam. Door closed.
RUDE.
Also? Kinda hot.
But still—RUDE.
—
I light a lavender-scented candle like i'm cleansing the air of his attitude.
Then i throw myself onto the couch again, this time like a telenovela heroine who's just been slapped.
"I was just trying to boil water," I whisper into the void, sipping boxed wine like it's expensive cabernet.
Buzz.
Group chat.
Ari:
Saw you on the CCTV again. Stomping like a Real Housewife.
Me:
I WASN'T STOMPING I WAS GLIDING THROUGH A DOMESTIC CRISIS.
Ari:
Sure, babe. He's cute though.
I throw a pillow at my phone and consider launching myself off the balcony. Not seriously. Just for drama.
—
New plan:
Avoid Mr. Racer.
Order a new kettle.
Hit the rooftop pool and pretend i'm not spiraling into aesthetic chaos.
But the second i open my door, boom.
There he is.
Walking past in head-to-toe black gym wear like he's on the way to emotionally detach in cardio form.
He doesn't even glance at me.
"You're welcome for the neighborhood entertainment," I call, half-flirty, half-petty, full Elara.
He pauses.
Turns.
Looks at me.
Like, really looks.
"Do you always talk like you're in a reality show?" he asks, deadpan.
"Do you always look like someone ran over your dreams and you just kept jogging?" I shoot back.
And then—
A twitch.
A flicker of a grin.
Not full-on.
Not even a smile.
Just... a micro-expression of almost amusement.
Then he walks away.
Cool. Quiet. Gone.
And me?
I stand there, slightly breathless, clutching my takeout menu like it's a handwritten love letter from destiny.
I message Ari, eyes still on the hallway.
Me:
I think i made a dent in his ice heart.
Ari:
Or he thinks you're insane.
Me:
What's the difference??
Ari:
One leads to therapy.
The other leads to a situationship.
I let out a scandalized gasp.
How dare she be right.
I toss my phone onto the bed like i'm tossing away my feelings (spoiler alert: I never actually do), and dramatically throw myself after it—robe sleeves flying, slippers clapping against the floor like they're applauding my descent into nonsense.
"I am so not doing this," I declare to the ceiling.
I pause.
"…I'm absolutely doing this."
I sit up, pull my robe tighter like i'm about to make a business pitch to the moon, and grab my iced coffee even though it's 6PM and I will not sleep tonight.
He smiled.
Kind of.
Technically.
If you squint.
That's progress.
And i'm nothing if not a woman who celebrates small wins.
Even if they're imaginary.
Especially if they're imaginary.
Me:
I'm not saying we're in love.
But the tension?
I felt it.
I think he did too.
Ari:
Girl, he was literally walking away.
Me:
Exactly. From his feelings.
Oh, by the way! Before we forgot, Ari is my gay bff!
I look out the window like the city's lights are about to give me answers.
They don't.
But they do reflect off my cheekbone nicely.
And really, that's all i needed.
Tomorrow, I'll boil water again.
No, never!
But tonight?
Tonight, I'll rehearse a new line.
Just in case fate gives me a second scene with Mr. Ice Cold Racer Boy from 1706.
"Oh, sorry… were you looking for me?"
Omg! I'm so funny.