The ceiling was creaking again.
Not a polite, occasional groan. No, this was the full haunted-house symphony: a long, rolling scrape, followed by a heavy thud that rattled the cracked light fixture over my bed.
I blinked at the glowing red numbers of my alarm clock. 6:12 a.m. I had been asleep for exactly… I did the math with the sluggishness of someone who’d worked a twelve-hour night shift. Three hours. Three glorious, irreplaceable hours.
Another thud. Something clattered. Was he bowling up there? Training elephants? Rearranging a corpse collection?
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, pushing the thin blanket aside. The February air needled my bare legs. My apartment, like the rest of the building, believed central heating was more of a suggestion than a responsibility.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A delivery notification lit up the screen.
Your GroMart order has been delivered. Enjoy!
It was the only good thing about payday: the one big grocery order that meant I wouldn’t be living on stale crackers and hospital vending machine peanuts. I pictured bags of fresh produce, bread that wasn’t off-brand white bricks, actual vegetables that hadn’t been drowned in cafeteria sauce.
The thought got me moving. I shoved my hair into some semblance of a bun, threw on an oversized sweatshirt over my sleep shorts, and slipped my feet into mismatched socks. I grabbed my keys and trudged to the door.
A draft slid through the hallway, carrying the familiar smells of the building: Mrs. Alvarez’s perpetual simmering onion-and-garlic base from 2B, old wood, the faint sweetness of someone’s fabric softener. Comforting, lived-in. Home, in a frayed, hanging-on-by-a-thread kind of way.
But when I opened my door, the doormat was empty.
No brown paper bags. No groceries. Just the chipped green paint of the opposite apartment and the stain near the elevator no one wanted to discuss.
I stared at the bare floor as if I could will my groceries into existence. The notification blinked up at me from my phone, mocking.
“Delivered where?” I snapped at it, because sleep deprivation makes you brave and stupid.
Down the hall, a door opened. Mr. Chang from 4F shuffled out in his slippers, nodding at me. “Morning, Nurse Chloe.” His English was thick with accent, his kindness even thicker.
“Morning,” I managed, trying not to sound like a woman on the verge of a public meltdown over missing carbohydrates. “Did you… see any delivery guy?”
He shook his head. “No. Maybe downstairs?”
Maybe. Or maybe—
Above my head, another heavy thump, closer to the wall this time. I followed the line of sound with narrowed eyes.
My upstairs neighbor.
The mysterious fourth-floor hurricane who had moved in two weeks ago and immediately turned his apartment into a percussion instrument at all hours of the night. I’d never seen more than a blur of him through the stairwell window—tall, hood up, carrying what looked like his whole life in mismatched duffel bags.
I’d complained about the noise once, through the thin ceiling, because confrontation with actual human beings was risky, and walls didn’t talk back.
“Some of us work nights!” I’d shouted upwards after a particularly vicious midnight dragging-of-something-heavy.
He’d shouted back, “Sorry!” in a voice that had sounded half-asleep and totally not sorry.
Now my grocery order had mysteriously vanished from in front of my door. My phone still said delivered. The timing was suspicious.
My stomach growled, sharp and empty.
“Okay,” I told the ceiling. “War it is.”
I took the stairs two at a time, the cold metal railing biting at my palm. Each step up, I got angrier. By the third floor landing, I was composing an entire speech about basic decency and quiet hours and not stealing a woman’s hard-won groceries.
By the time I reached the fourth floor, oxygen was optional and rage kept me upright.
The hallway up here was the same as mine—same peeling wallpaper, same buzzing light—but it felt different. Less lived-in. Fewer door mats, fewer potted plants fighting for survival on windowsills. My noisy neighbor’s door was the only one with a shoe print next to the handle, like someone had kicked it shut.
Apartment 4C.
I raised my fist and knocked hard enough that my knuckles stung.
Silence.
I knocked again, louder. “Hey! I know you’re in there. I can hear you trying to murder your furniture.”
There was a muffled curse, a crash, and then footsteps approached. The lock turned with a reluctant click. A second later, the door opened.
The speech in my head evaporated.
He was…
Beautiful was the only word and it felt ridiculous, standing there in my sleep shorts, thinking that about a stranger who might have stolen my canned soup.
He was wearing pajama pants patterned with tiny grey buildings—skyscrapers?—and a white T-shirt that had seen better days. His dark hair stuck up everywhere, a mess that somehow looked intentional and expensive even though it clearly wasn’t. There was a fading travel nap crease on his cheek, like he’d fallen asleep on something hard recently and never quite recovered.
His eyes, though—they were what made my thoughts stutter. A strange, clear hazel, ringed in tired shadows that told me he knew all about bad sleep for different reasons.
He squinted at me, then down at the phone in his hand, then back up.
“Hi,” he said slowly. His voice was scratchy, rough with sleep and something like embarrassment. “So… I think I accidentally stole your life.”
He stepped back, and there, on his kitchen counter in plain sight, were my grocery bags.
I stared at them. Then at him. Then back at them.
Something trembled under my sternum—part fury, part the hysterical urge to laugh.
“You think?” I said. “What gave it away? The fact that my name is stamped on every bag?”
He winced, running a hand through his hair. His fingers left new chaos behind. “In my defense, I am severely jet-lagged and the delivery guy basically thrust them at me and said my apartment number and I just…” He lifted his hands, helpless. “Accepted the universe’s offering.”
I pushed past him before I could be disarmed by the sheepish curve of his mouth. The apartment smelled like cardboard boxes and coffee grounds. The floor was a maze of half-unpacked life: open suitcases, rolled-up architectural drawings, a stack of books with sticky notes like neon flags.
My grocery bags sat on the counter, some already half-unpacked. An apple had rolled to the edge, balanced there like it was considering a leap.
“You opened them,” I said, incredulous.
He shut the door with his foot. “I thought it was mine. I ordered food last night. Same app, same time probably. I only realized when I saw the oat milk. I would never willingly order oat milk.”
“What do you have against oat milk?” I demanded, because arguing about plant-based dairy might keep me from screaming.
“Nothing. I’m sure it’s a very respectable liquid. It’s just not mine. Look—” He moved to the other end of the counter, where another set of bags sat. “These are mine. I swear I didn’t touch your stuff once I realized. Well, I touched it, but I didn’t… consume it.”
He said consume like it was a crime.
I exhaled, the first thread of my anger deflating. The bags did look intact. Still, the irritation clung, sharp and familiar. People always made mistakes with my things, my time, my boundaries—and I always paid for it.
“You didn’t think to check the name before you opened the bag?”
He grimaced. “I told you. The guy said four-C and I just… I’m a simple man. Someone hands me food, I accept. Also, I think I was asleep when I answered the door? There’s a non-zero chance.”
“You answered the door in your sleep,” I said flatly.
He nodded, serious. “I’ve done it before. Once I woke up with a pizza box on my lap and no memory of how it got there. Whole pepperoni. Untouched. It was devastating.”
A startled laugh escaped me. I tried to catch it on the way out, but it was too quick, too genuine. His head tilted slightly, like he’d been waiting for that sound without knowing it.
“Look,” I said, pulling myself together. “I just got off a night shift. I haven’t slept. I need that food to not die this week. If anything is missing—”
“I’ll replace it,” he said immediately. “Twice over. Three times. I’ll build you a shrine of canned goods.”
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse slowed. “You can’t just—this building is small. We’re neighbors. Try not to accidentally take things that aren’t yours.”
“Fair,” he said. “In my defense, again, they delivered to the wrong door. That’s not on me.”
“Some of it is on you,” I countered. “Partially on you.”
He held up his hands as if I had a weapon instead of bedhead. “I accept partial blame. I am Leo, by the way.”
His name knocked against something in my memory, but not hard enough to make sense. Leo… what? He hadn’t said a last name.
“Chloe,” I said, reluctantly.
“Nice to meet you, Chloe-who-works-nights.” His gaze flicked over my sweatshirt and too-thin legs, taking me in with quick, observant detail that made my skin feel too tight. Not leering, just… looking. Seeing.
I busied myself checking the bags. Eggs intact. Bread uncrushed. Frozen veggies still mostly frozen. My shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Everything’s here,” I said. “Somehow.”
“See?” His grin appeared—quick, crooked, warm. It made him look boyish despite the stubble shadowing his jaw. “No harm done. Just a little confusion and some oat milk slander.”
“You woke me up,” I reminded him. “Again.”
Guilt flickered across his face, wiping away the grin. “Is it really that bad?”
“Yes,” I said, then sighed. “I work nights at the hospital. So when you decide to… move furniture? Wrestle demons? I hear all of it.”
Something in his posture changed. Straightened. He shifted his weight, bracing one hand on the counter like he’d just been told he was in violation of an actual building code.
“Wow. Okay. I’m—sorry. I didn’t know. I, uh, just got back. From overseas. My brain thinks this is afternoon, so I’ve been trying to make the place livable.” He glanced around at the chaos with a faintly helpless expression. “Clearly succeeding.”
“What do you do?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Architect.” He pointed at the scattered rolled-up blueprints. “Or at least, that’s the plan. Right now I’m mostly professional chaos distributor.”
“I noticed,” I said dryly.
His mouth twitched. “I will be… quieter. I’ll, I don’t know, put down rugs or something. A trampoline? That seems counterproductive. Ignore that. Rugs.”
“You could just lift things,” I said. “Instead of dragging them like a movie villain disposing of a body.”
He barked out a laugh, head tipping back. The sound filled the small space, bright and ridiculous. “Noted. No more body-dragging.”
I picked up one of my bags, the paper rough under my fingers. My brain was already ticking through the math of the day: get downstairs, put things away, sleep for maybe two hours before I had to be back at the hospital. Don’t think about how thin my bank account looked even after payday. Don’t think about the rent notice that had been slid under my door last week—a polite reminder that ‘any late payments will incur fees’ which I could not afford.
“Okay,” I said again, softer this time. “Just… we have thin floors. People live below you.”
He sobered, nodding. “You live below me.”
“Yes.” My fingers tightened on the bag handles. “I live below you.”
For a second, the words hung between us like something with more meaning than physics and floor plans. His gaze lowered, flicking in the direction of where my apartment would be, one floor down and slightly to the left.
“I’ll be better,” he said quietly. “You won’t hear a thing.”
I didn’t believe that for a second. But something about the way he said it—earnest, without ego—nudged at the wall I kept tightly mortared around strangers.
“Fine,” I said. “Consider this your official neighborly warning.”
“Understood,” he said solemnly. “May I offer a peace treaty?” He grabbed a carton from his own grocery stash and held it up. “Ice cream. The real kind. No oat milk in sight.”
I hesitated. It was childish, but ice cream before sleep sounded like heaven.
My practical brain kicked in. This is how it starts. You say yes, he’s nice, you get used to it, and then one day he’s gone and you’re left with melted ice cream and higher expectations.
“I can’t,” I said, stepping back. “I need sleep. And you need to…” I waved at the chaos. “Fight the boxes.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, then thought better of it. “Rain check?”
“Let’s survive you not stomping through the ceiling first,” I said.
“Fair.” His smile softened. “Can I at least help you carry those down?”
“I’ve got it.” The refusal came out sharper than I intended. His brows pulled together. I forced my shoulders to relax. “I’m used to lugging things around. Occupational hazard.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He stepped aside, opening the door wider. As I passed him, the heat of his body brushed the cold of my bare legs through the thin fabric of my shorts. My pulse did something stupid and traitorous.
“Chloe?” he said behind me.
I paused in the doorway, looking back.
“For the record,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the frame. His eyes had cleared of sleep, intent now, focused. “I really am sorry. About the noise. About the groceries. I’ll fix it.”
It was such a simple promise. I’ll fix it. People said that all the time. My father had said it, once, before he stuck a duffel bag in the trunk and never came back.
“Just… try,” I said. “That’s all.”
He nodded like I’d handed him a blueprint. “Trying is my specialty.”
I snorted, unable to help it. “We’ll see.”
I carried the bags back down the stairs, feeling his gaze on my back until I turned the corner.
In my apartment, I set the groceries on the counter, my little galley kitchen suddenly overflowing with more food than it usually saw in a month. I unloaded mechanically, letting the rhythm calm my frayed nerves.
Bread in the breadbox. Eggs in the fridge. Oat milk on the shelf.
I should have been angry still. And I was, a little. But layered over it was something else: curiosity. Annoying and inconvenient.
Leo, the architect with building-print pajama pants and eyes that looked like they’d seen too many airports.
The ceiling above me creaked again—a small sound, like a careful footstep.
I froze, listening.
Then, faintly, the whisper of something soft sliding across the floor. A rug, maybe. Or a man trying very, very hard not to be heard.
My lips tugged into an unwilling smile.
I climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin. The exhaustion hit all at once, heavy and absolute. My eyelids drooped.
Right before I slipped under, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Unknown number:
Sorry again. If I’m too loud, text me instead of yelling at the ceiling. Less strain on your vocal cords. —Leo 4C
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I could ignore it. Keep everything simple and distant. Neighbors were safer that way.
Instead, I typed before I could overthink.
Only if you promise not to order any more sleep pizzas.
There was a pause.
Then:
No promises.
I sank into sleep with my phone still in my hand, the faintest echo of his crooked grin lingering in the dark, and a single unwanted question trailing me down into dreams:
What happens when the man upstairs starts trying to fix more than just the noise?
