THE QUIET NEXT DOOR

CHAPTER FOUR: FAMILIAR

By Friday, Elias had stopped feeling like a surprise.

That realization unsettled me more than it should have.

It wasn’t that we’d talked much. We hadn’t. It was the small things—the sound of his door opening in the mornings, his footsteps on the stairs, the faint music through the wall at night. I noticed when it wasn’t there. That felt like a problem.

I was standing in front of my fridge, one hand on the door, the other holding absolutely nothing useful, when I accepted the fact that I wasn’t cooking. Again. My stomach growled in a way that felt accusatory.

“Fine,” I muttered, grabbing my keys. “You win.”

The hallway lights flickered the way they always did, like they couldn’t fully commit to being on. Elias was outside his apartment, crouched slightly, trying to wrestle a paper grocery bag that was seconds away from giving up on him.

An orange escaped.

It rolled to my feet and stopped, like it had made a decision.

I picked it up before my brain could talk me out of it.

“Hey,” I said. “Your food is running away.”

He looked up, a little startled, then smiled—wide and real, like I’d caught him off guard in a good way. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted it.”

I handed him the orange. Our fingers brushed. I pretended not to notice. I failed.

“Thanks,” he said. “I was losing that fight.”

“You were,” I agreed. “The bag was winning.”

He laughed, and for some reason that made my chest feel too full for the quiet hallway. He adjusted the bag against his hip and nodded toward my keys.

“Heading out?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Food emergency.”

“Same,” he said. Then, like it just slipped out of him, “I’m making pasta. I made too much. You could… help me get rid of it?”

I stared at him.

This was a normal thing. People did this. Neighbors offered food. It wasn’t a proposal. It wasn’t a declaration. It was just pasta.

Still, my instinct burned. Say no. Keep walking. Go back to your quiet apartment and eat something disappointing in peace.

“I won’t stay long,” I said, which wasn’t an answer.

“That’s okay,” he replied easily. “I’m bad at hosting anyway.”

That, somehow, made it harder to refuse.

His apartment was warm. Not just temperature-wise—there were shoes by the door, a jacket thrown over a chair, a half-open window letting in the sounds of the street. It looked like someone actually lived there, not like a place staged to be impressive.

I stood awkwardly by the counter while he drained pasta, feeling like I was trespassing even though he’d invited me in.

“Wine?” he asked.

“I don’t usually—” I stopped. Sighed. “Yeah. Okay.”

We ate leaning against the counter, plates balanced precariously, talking on and off again. There were pauses. Little silences that weren’t uncomfortable but weren’t smooth either. The kind where you’re both thinking and pretending not to be.

He told me about a patient who refused to do their exercises. I told him about a client who changed their mind after approving everything. We complained like it was a shared language.

At some point, I realized I was relaxed.

That realization made me tense again.

When I checked my phone, it had been longer than I meant to stay.

“I should go,” I said, already missing the way the space felt with him in it.

“Yeah,” he said, softer. “Of course.”

We stood there for a second too long, neither of us moving. His eyes flicked to my mouth and away so fast I almost thought I imagined it.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said.

“Anytime,” he replied, then paused. “I mean—if you want.”

I nodded, unable to think of a response that wouldn’t give too much away, and escaped into the hallway.

Inside my apartment, I leaned against the door, staring at the opposite wall.

This was how it started, wasn’t it?

Not with fireworks. Not with certainty.

Just with a neighbor who felt a little too easy to be around.

And the quiet next door not feeling so quiet anymore.