THE QUIET NEXT DOOR

CHAPTER THREE: ACCIDENTAL PROXIMITY

The mailbox was jammed.

That was the first thing I noticed, which, in hindsight, was ridiculous. I’d been living here long enough to know that mailbox jams were routine, yet somehow it felt like a big plot that he would be standing there when I arrived.

Elias.

He looked up from wrestling the stubborn slot, hair falling into his eyes, and caught me watching. His lips curved into that infuriating, almost-apologetic smile.

“Hey,” he said, voice low enough that I thought the neighbors weren’t going to hear, but loud enough that I felt it all the way through my chest. “Mailbox strikes again.”

“Seems to,” I muttered, trying to sound casual while simultaneously failing. My hand clutched my keys like a lifeline.

“You need help?” he asked, straightening just enough to meet my gaze.

I considered saying no. I considered saying yes. I considered walking away entirely, even though the mailbox was literally three feet from me.

“I… don’t know,” I admitted. My voice sounded higher than intended. “It’s being stubborn.”

“Let me,” he said.

And he leaned over the metal slot, fiddling with it like it was a Rubik’s cube he was determined to solve. I hovered beside him, feeling awkwardly aware of the space between us. Too close to be neutral. Not close enough to be anything else.

“Here,” he said after a moment, pressing the latch and nudging the door open with a triumphant flick. “Victory.”

I wanted to laugh, wanted to congratulate him, wanted to punch him. Instead, I muttered a quiet “Thanks,” like I was embarrassed for it to be so easy.

“You’re welcome,” he said, leaning back. His eyes held mine longer than necessary. I looked away first—always the safe move.

Then, of course, I had to retrieve my mail. Which meant I had to bend down, fumbling with the slot, just as he shifted slightly.

There. Close enough that our shoulders brushed.

I froze.

He froze.

Neither of us spoke.

“Uh… you got a lot of junk mail,” he said finally, breaking the spell with a half-smile.

I groaned, too embarrassed to explain that yes, I was terrible at opening bills, and yes, I probably needed to throw out three magazines that were two years old.

He laughed softly, that warm sound that made my chest feel crowded.

“You know,” he said, casual but pointed, “I could help you carry it upstairs. I don’t bite.”

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then muttered, “I’ve got it.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, grinning. But I caught the flash of… something behind his eyes. Interest? Curiosity? A little amusement at my stubbornness? Probably all three.

As I walked up to my apartment, mail clutched to my chest, I realized:

I was thinking about him, again. About the brush of a shoulder, the sound of his laugh, the way he watched me like I mattered.

I shook my head. Ridiculous. He was just my neighbor. And yet, part of me couldn’t help wondering what other “accidental proximities” the universe had