Hello, Neighbor

Her toast was toast. Lucille groaned at the sight of the charred slices curling in on themselves like dying leaves inside the toaster. Blackened, bitter, and frankly personal. She didn’t have time for this. Not today. She was already late—again—after sleeping through her alarm for the third time that week. She was starting to think the damn thing had declared war, conspiring against her with her treacherous laptop, which hadn’t charged overnight and now blinked pitifully at 54%. That was all she had to survive a two-hour lecture on political theory. She crammed the laptop and charger into her bag with a muffled curse, muttering a plea to the gods of classroom outlets. Maybe she’d snag a wall seat. Maybe the world would show her some mercy. Snagging the toast from the toaster, she took a bite—and immediately regretted it. Charcoal. Disgusting. But technically food. She chewed through the bitterness with grim determination. Her apartment—a historic 1920’s Art Deco tower tucked in the heart of Eastward City, one of Virginia’s bigger, buzzier metros—was small but strategically organized to accommodate her very full life. Shoes near the door. Bag by the keys. Books on the counter. Everything in controlled chaos. Phone, wallet, ID, notebooks, textbooks—into the bag. Coffee, always in the biggest to-go cup she owned—into her hand. As the door swung shut behind her, she bolted into the hallway, heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the tile. The sound centered her. Made her feel taller than her five-foot-three frame. Like she could conquer anything. The soft ding of the elevator echoed just ahead. She rounded the corner, a woman on a mission, toast clenched between her teeth, coffee sloshing precariously in her hand. The elevator doors were nearly closed. “Wait—wait, wait!” she gasped, half-trotting toward the pair of men inside. “Can you hold it, please?” The one closest to the doors raised a brow but obligingly shot out an arm, stopping them just in time. She slipped in, breathless and grateful. “I’m not usually in such a rush.” Lie. “Just late for class.” Half-true. The man closest offered a small smile but said nothing. She clocked the logo on his shirt—Hanson Haulers, a local moving company. They’d done work for the magazine once or twice. “Someone moving in or out?” she asked brightly, a smile in her voice. “In,” he replied. “Same floor you came from.” “Oh!” she said, surprised. “A new neighbor?” She made a mental note. Cookies? Wine? Maybe lemon shortbread if she had time. Probably wine. Cookies felt risky. The elevator dinged again, and she bolted through the lobby, tossing a “Sorry! Have a good day!” over her shoulder. She burst into the crisp morning air, the early fall breeze catching her hair as she jogged across the sidewalk. The coffee helped. The click of her boots helped more. Eastward buzzed around her—buses groaned, crosswalks blinked, someone nearby cursed at their parking app. Her eyes caught on the moving truck as she passed. She offered the driver a wave—and nearly ran right into him. He stood just off to the side, hefting a large, heavy-looking box, out of uniform. And he was… beautiful. Not cute. Not handsome. Beautiful in a way that made her breath hitch. Long lashes, warm brown eyes, a slant to his brows that made him look quietly intense. His lips were full, his stubble soft, and his dark hair—longer than most—was tied back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck. But it wasn’t just his face that stopped her. It was the look in his eyes. He looked sad. Not bad-mood sad or I-hate-moving sad—but deep sad, the kind that settled into your bones and unpacked boxes. The kind that didn’t leave easily. Their eyes met. Lucille flushed, startled by the intensity. Still, she smiled—genuine and bright. He blinked at her, seeming surprised. She did the math. One minute to spare. Maybe less if the crosswalk gods were feeling cruel. Regardless, she slowed, already stepping toward him. “Um. Hi,” she said, still slightly breathless. He watched her like he hadn’t quite registered her presence yet. Then, cautiously: “Hi…?” “You’re the one moving in, right? Sixth floor?” She resisted the urge to shuffle under his gaze. This man made some serious eye contact. A pause. “Yes.” She offered her hand. “Well, I’m Lucille. One of your new neighbors. I live on the sixth floor too. Welcome to the building!” Another pause, then a small shift—he moved the box to his hip and shook her hand, brief and almost shy. “Scott.” “Which unit?” she asked. “6B.” Her grin widened. “I’m in 6C! So we’re really neighbors. You'll have to let me know if I'm super loud. The last person who lived there was deaf and--” She checked her phone and winced. “s**t. Sorry—I have to run. But maybe I’ll see you later? Maybe we can get dinner!” Before he could answer, she was already off—strawberry-blonde waves bouncing as she hurried around the corner. Scott watched her vanish like a gust of wind in kitten heels. “Pretty lil’ thing,” one of the movers muttered nearby. Scott didn’t respond. But yeah. She was. And her lovely smile, given so freely, felt all too familiar. He shook himself. You’re here to start over. Focus. Still, as he carried the box toward the elevator, he caught himself looking back over his shoulder. ⸻ Two hours later, Professor Strife dismissed the lecture, and Lucille slumped back in her seat, her hand cramped from furious note-taking. Her laptop, traitorous as ever, had died twenty minutes before the lecture ended—just in time for the most important section. She packed fast, tossed a kiss toward Bria—her best friend and chaos counterpart—and hustled out into the street. The city air bit at her cheeks now, sharp and clean. She liked Eastward in the fall. The trees lining the boulevard were just starting to blush red and gold. A breeze tugged at her coat, but it didn’t bother her. Her phone chimed. Meena: Here? Lucille’s thumbs flew. Me: 5 min. Report sent. Samples en route, ETA noon. Robin confirmed rewrites. She was technically late for work. But Meena tolerated it. Not out of kindness—Meena preferred cold professionalism—but because Lucille made damn sure the world didn’t stop turning in her absence. She wasn’t just Meena Dubois’ personal secretary at Evoker. She was her lifeline. Her right hand. Lucille filtered emails, screened calls, tracked deadlines, and delivered espresso like it was blessed by angels. She spoke fluent PR, knew which editors were morning people, and kept a live-feed in her head of every single appointment Meena had for the next three weeks, in addition to a perpetual inventory of past, present, and future events and catastrophes the magazine faced. Outside of work, Lucille was a little whirlwind of glitter and disarray. She loved romance novels, old movies, and burning dinner. But inside those glass doors—tall and glossy and casting long shadows across downtown Eastward—she was flawless. Poised. Efficient. Untouchable. Her boots clicked up the steps, her hair caught in the light like spun honey, and one word echoed in her head with every step: Showtime.