Hello, Neighbor

Chapter Four

Scott laid the laptop on his counter with a quiet sigh, the metal casing landing with a soft, final-sounding click.

Less than a day, and he'd already gone back on his decision not to get mixed up with this woman. It was like his heart didn't listen to the very clear warnings his brain shouted.

His shoulders ached from hauling boxes all day, his mind dulled from a long string of small, precise decisions—what to unpack, where to put it, how to keep everything just so. This was how he kept the world at arm’s length. With clean lines. With symmetry. With silence.

His muscles burned with fatigue, but the real weight sat deeper—in his chest, just beneath the surface, like an anchor he didn’t remember tying.

He didn’t do people. Not anymore. He should have ignored her. Could have stayed behind the door, turned on the shower, drowned her muffled cursing with the sound of running water.

Left the girl next door to her breakdown and walked away.

But he hadn’t. And he didn’t quite understand why. Maybe he wanted to prove that he wasn't afraid of her. Maybe he just had a bleeding heart.

You went and got involved anyway. Might as well fix it.

Right. The sooner he fixed her device, the sooner he could exit the situation and their association would end there.

He moved down the short hallway into his bedroom, a space that still smelled faintly of cardboard and fresh paint. The walls were empty—sterile. Just as he preferred. A full-sized bed sat against the back wall, crisp white sheets pulled tight beneath a plain gray comforter. A black dresser stood beneath the window to the left, a small matching nightstand on the right. His desk—minimalist, unadorned—rested in the far corner, tools stored in drawers, cables rolled and labeled.

No pictures. No posters. No clutter.

No memories.

Better that way.

A clean slate. A blank start.

A soft knock interrupted the silence. Three quick taps. Then, the gentle creak of the door easing open.

Scott crossed the room and opened his desk drawer. He retrieved his compact toolkit with practiced efficiency, shutting the drawer softly behind him just as he stepped into the hallway again.

And that’s when she appeared. A blur of warm tones and movement. Color, expression, life—suddenly in his monochrome world.

Lucille.

Her smile arrived before her voice, bright and unabashed, like a sunrise cutting through fog. She breezed into his apartment like she belonged there. Her demeanor was soft and light again—no sign of earlier tears—and she wore a warm, mischievous smile that made something under his skin twitch. Her hair framed her face in soft, strawberry-blonde waves, catching the overhead light. Her baby blue eyes—summery, wide, and too trusting—took in his apartment like it was a museum exhibit.

In her hands, she held two napkin-wrapped slices of something glossy with icing.

“I come bearing a prepayment,” she said, extending one with a little flourish.

He blinked. “Prepayment?”

“For laptop resurrection services,” she said. “Iced lemon loaf. Homemade."

Scott accepted it slowly, careful not to brush her fingers. It was warm, slightly sticky through the napkin. It smelled incredible—sweet citrus and butter and something that tugged at a memory he didn’t let surface. "Thanks," he mumbled slowly.

“I cannot believe you have this much unpacked already,” she said, practically glowing. “Did you seriously just move in today?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

He brushed past her without touching, careful not to let even the fabric of his sleeve graze her.

Back at the counter, her laptop waited. He set the sweet bread aside and focused on it.

Lucille claimed the barstool across from him with a soft sigh and settled her elbows on the countertop. Her chin rested in her palm as she watched him.

He could feel her gaze—curious but not invasive. Open. She wasn’t trying to understand him. She just wanted to watch. That was somehow worse.

Scott opened the laptop and began working. Every motion was clean, confident, efficient. He unscrewed the back panel with slow precision, lining each tiny screw in perfect order beside the keyboard.

The inside was dusty. The battery was loose. Both were fixable.

She’d been lucky.

“So…” Lucille’s voice was a little softer now, like she wasn’t sure if he preferred the silence. “Do you do this a lot?”

“Fix laptops?” he replied without glancing up.

She grinned. “Rescue emotionally unstable girls and revive their dying electronics.”

He didn’t pause. “Only when they’re bargaining with God in the hallway.”

She let out a sound--a mix between a groan and a laugh--and buried her face in her hands.

“Oh my God. I’m never living that down, am I?”

“Probably not.”

“I’m usually very composed,” she insisted, voice muffled behind her fingers.

He gave her a quick glance, skeptical and dry.

“I am!”

He looked up briefly once more, raising an eyebrow. “Mhm.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

He made a noncommittal noise. He opened a drawer, retrieved a can of compressed air, and began clearing out the dust. The soft bursts of air hissed into the quiet space, each one short and purposeful.

Lucille leaned in, watching, completely rapt.

“That’s kind of hot,” she murmured, clearly not meaning to say it aloud.

Scott paused.

Her cheeks pinked almost instantly. “I mean--not like hot, hot. Just, like...competence is attractive. It’s… it’s a compliment.”

“Still not helping your case,” he said flatly.

She laughed again, hiding her face in her elbow this time.

He clicked the battery back into place with a satisfying snap, then carefully reattached the panel. A few more screws. A reconnected charger cable.

He turned the laptop toward her. “Ready?”

“Yes,” she breathed, fingers crossed, biting her bottom lip.

Scott hit the power button.

The screen glowed to life.

Lucille gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my God. You fixed it! You beautiful, broody computer god.”

"I...what?"

She beamed at him, face lighting up like a chandelier. “Seriously. You saved my semester. My life. You’re just...ugh, amazing.”

He looked away. Her praise made something uneasy stir in his chest. His face suddenly felt hot.

He didn't hear her coming.

She'd stepped around the island and, before he had a chance to process what she was doing, launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck without warning.

Scott stiffened immediately, caught off guard, his hands lifting like he was surrendering.

Her body pressed into his without hesitation, like they’d done this a dozen times. She was smaller than he might have expected. Softer. This was no polite, one-arm hug. It was all-in. Warm. Enthusiastic. Full of sugar and lemon and trust he hadn’t earned. He stood frozen another moment, uncertain.

Slowly, his hand moved to awkwardly pat her shoulder. Tentative. Careful. As if she were a cute wild animal that he wasn't confident wouldn't bite him. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

Eve didn't look like she'd bite, either. The thought made him uneasy.

She didn’t linger, not long. Just enough to scatter his thoughts, make his chest uncomfortably tight.

When she pulled back, she looked up at him—lips parted, eyes a little starry. “I'm Lucille Saunders. I'm twenty, and a personal secretary. Also college student. And your next-door neighbor, of course.”

She offered her hand like it was a pact.

He looked at it, then at her. Hesitated.

Then took it in his.

“Scott Aberdeen.”

Her grin widened like she'd won a secret game.

His eyebrows lifted. He got the distinct feeling that this was nowhere near their last encounter.

She scooped up her laptop and turned toward the door. "Eat that lemon loaf while it's fresh, okay?"

He followed, still processing the hug. The ghost of her perfume still clung to the front of his shirt.

At the threshold, she turned back, her lashes brushing low. Her smile was quiet now. Genuine. Something softer than teasing. “Goodnight, Scott,” she said, voice warm as a summer night. Then she slipped into the hallway and disappeared.

Scott stood there for a long, long moment, one hand braced against the doorframe. Eventually, he closed the door behind her, leaned his full weight into it.

Eyes shut. Pulse frenzied from a mixture of anxiety and something else he didn't have the courage to name.

Fuck me.