Hello, Neighbor

Chapter Three

Work dragged like a stone tied to her ankle.

It had started early with a bang—literally—when the junior editor tripped over her own chair, spilled coffee across the master schedule, and then somehow managed to delete an entire article. Not a paragraph. Not a draft. The whole thing. No one noticed until the sample layout hit Lucille’s desk with a glaring white void where 1,500 words should’ve been.

That had been the beginning. From there, the day unraveled with enthusiastic malice.

Two of Evoker’s longest-standing models—both tall, polished, and terrifyingly beautiful—got into a shrieking match over a missing can of sugar-free Red Bull. Security had to be called. The photographer, sheepishly sipping from an identical, mostly empty can on the windowsill, admitted he’d grabbed the last one by accident.

Then a high-maintenance client waltzed in without warning, demanding a “quick face-to-face” with Meena. It took Lucille nearly thirty full minutes of charm, redirection, and high-stakes emotional judo to get them out the door without setting something on fire.

And as if the universe sensed she was still upright, the design team launched a digital SOS when their layout software decided to rebel—cutting a third of the magazine content cleanly off every page like some deranged guillotine.

By then, IT was already in triage mode. Someone had opened a corrupted file on the server that spread like malware through a glass house, glitching out every synced device in sight. Lucille’s phone buzzed so many times her hand started to vibrate on instinct.

And then came the worst part.

Lucille had to fire someone.

She hated it. It was her least favorite responsibility—even more than tracking down invoices from vendors who “accidentally” sent them to spam.

Gwen had been a friend. Sweet. Kind. Always remembered birthdays. But she missed deadlines, ignored time blocks, and took more smoke breaks than meetings. Lucille had gently warned her—more than once—that Meena was noticing. That patience had an expiration date. Gwen didn’t listen.

And today, the expiration hit.

Lucille still heard the way Gwen’s voice cracked when she asked, “Are you serious?”

The guilt sat heavy beneath her breastbone.

Now, long after sunset, the office was quiet. Too quiet.

Lucille sat alone in the executive wing, her workspace glowing in soft amber from her desk lamp. She finalized next week’s schedule, double-checked deliverables, and set an alert for her meeting with Meena tomorrow morning.

Meena always got her own copy, of course. But as she’d once told Lucille, “Attending the appointments is my job. Knowing them is yours.”

Lucille hadn’t pointed out that she usually attended most of them too.

Meena Dubois, Editor-in-Chief and editorial powerhouse, had been running the magazine like a military unit long before Lucille ever walked through the door. Sharp. Exacting. Brilliant. The kind of woman who didn’t blink under pressure and expected you not to blink either.

But after Lucille joined the team, the grip loosened. Meena started delegating.

Delegating to her.

Lucille scheduled interviews, smoothed over client chaos, kept a running ledger of Meena’s personal and professional life, and always had her color-coded briefing packet ready two minutes before it was needed. The woman couldn't smudge her lipstick without Lucille having a fix prepped and ready for implementation.

Meena even took a vacation in June. Her first in three years.

That hadn’t just happened. Lucille made it happen. And she was proud of that.

Also? Job security. Which was worth its weight in gold, even if she was late every other Monday.

She leaned back and stretched, wincing as her spine crackled like bubble wrap. Her blouse clung to her back in a light sweat. Her eyelids burned. Her headache had its own pulse.

Almost nine.

She still had to be back by eight.

With a whimpering groan, she slung her purse over one shoulder, her heavy school bag over the other, and made her way to the elevators.

Only a few others remained—security mostly—and she made a point to say goodnight to each of them by name. She always did. Acknowledging people mattered.

That’s what makes the gears turn, she thought. People.

Then came the part she hated.

Her apartment was only five minutes from the office. Five blocks across the downtown edge of Eastward’s historic quarter. Safe on paper. But at night...those five minutes stretched.

Her steps quickened instinctively, heart rate rising even if her face stayed neutral. Her fingers curled tighter around her bag straps as she passed shuttered storefronts and glowing parking meters. A man leaned against a wall across the street, and she shifted subtly to the other side of the sidewalk.

She didn’t fully breathe until she was in her lobby under the flickering gold of warm lights.

The elevator moved slower than molasses. She leaned back against the mirrored wall and silently chanted, Thirty more steps. Fifty with a shower. You’ve got this.

The bell dinged. Her eyelids fluttered open.

She dragged herself down the hall, a stilleto-clad editorial soldier after battle, shoulders sore, feet aching, soul threadbare. When she reached her apartment, she pulled her purse from her shoulder and began fishing for her keys.

That’s when she heard it—the hiss of fabric straining. The shift in weight.

She turned just in time to watch her school bag tilt sideways like a drunken pirate tipping its loot.

CLUNK. Textbook.

CLACK. Notebook.

TINK—pens and pencils scattered like confetti.

And then—THUD.

Her laptop.

Lucille stared at the wreckage like it had personally betrayed her. And then her body broke.

“Son of a b***h!” she cried, dropping to her knees. “No. No, please—not tonight!”

She scrambled toward the laptop like it was a wounded animal, hands trembling as she flipped open the lid.

“Come on, baby, don’t do this to me…”

She hit the power button. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.

Her breath hitched. “I didn’t back up my notes—oh my God—I didn’t save my assignment—”

Tears welled in her eyes, hot and stupid and stinging.

The screen remained black. And the last of her composure just...evaporated. A sob climbed her throat.

And that’s when she felt it—someone watching her.

She looked up—and there, in the doorway of 6B, was her brand-new neighbor. Scott.

He stood barefoot in dark joggers and a faded T-shirt, his long hair loose and curling at the ends, falling over his shoulders. He looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower—half-dry and half-annoyed to exist. Still stunning in his beauty.

His brows knit in an expression that was half concern, half why me.

“…Uh,” he said. “Are you okay?”

Her face went hot. Mortification hit her full-force.

“Oh God,” she croaked. “I—I’m so sorry.” She scrubbed at her face, probably smearing the last of her eyeliner across her cheek. “I didn’t mean to be loud. What a great first impression, right?”

She forced a laugh. It sounded unhinged, hysterical. She cringed harder.

He didn’t say anything. The silence made her panic worse. She babbled. “I’ll be out of your way in two seconds—just ignore me—I’ll disappear—”

“Do you need help?” he asked, suddenly closer, crouching beside her as his door shut behind him. He spoke softly, his voice calm and low, as if to a child.

Or, in this case, an emotionally unstable woman.

Lucille blinked up at him. “Oh—I—well, the universe dropped my computer,” she said weakly. “And now it’s...”

He looked from her to the computer. Then extended a hand, palm up. “May I?”

“Huh?”

“Can I see it?”

“Oh!” She gently handed him the laptop like it was the Hope Diamond.

He handled it carefully, fingers running along the casing, checking the screen, the hinges. His hands were steady. Precise. Quiet. Lucille stopped breathing for fear of disrupting the delicate spell he seemed to be casting.

“The outer screen’s fine,” he murmured. “And the keyboard’s intact. But I’ll need to open it. I’ve got the tools inside.”

“You think you can fix it?” she gasped. Her hands came together under her chin, hope lighting behind her eyes.

His gaze flicked up, then away again. “Maybe. I’d need to bring it inside.”

“Oh my God, you’re amazing! Thank you—just give me a second—” She turned into a whirlwind of energy, scooping papers and pens into her arms.

Oh no. No. “I didn’t mean—” he started.

“Oh, do you have any allergies?” she called over her shoulder.

He blinked, trying to keep up. “...Allergies?”

“I need to pay you back somehow. I don’t get paid until Friday, but I bake. Cookies, cupcakes, whatever you want. Sweets okay?”

“Uh. No allergies, but I--”

“Perfect! Three minutes. Just leave your door unlocked?”

He meant to say no.

He meant to say absolutely not, or you don't know me, or this is a bad idea.

But looking at her face, streaked with tears and makeup, all that came out was:

“Sure.”