THE QUIET NEXT DOOR

CHAPTER TWO: THIN WALLS

The walls between our apartments were thinner than I liked.

I realized this at exactly 7:13 a.m. the next morning, when the sound of music drifted into my kitchen while I stood waiting for my kettle to boil. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obnoxious. Just low enough to be unmistakable.

Acoustic. Slow. Thoughtful.

I frowned at the wall we shared, mug paused midway to the counter.

So he was a morning person.

That alone felt like a personal offense.

I turned my radio on—not to drown him out, but to reclaim my space. It didn’t help. Somehow, his music threaded itself through the noise, settling into the quiet corners of my apartment like it belonged there. B

I turned the radio off again, annoyed with myself.

By the time I left for work, I’d already decided that noticing him this much was a problem.

The hallway smelled faintly of coffee when I locked my door. As if summoned by the thought, his door opened just as I turned around.

Elias stepped out, travel mug in hand, hair still damp like he’d just showered. He wore a simple button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and something about the ease of it made my chest tighten again.

“Morning,” he said, smiling like this was normal. Like we were normal.

“Morning,” I replied, adjusting the strap of my bag. “Sorry if you heard my radio earlier.”

He tilted his head. “That was you?”

I nodded once.

“I liked it,” he said easily. “Felt… lived in.”

I didn’t know what to do with that, so I unlocked my door again just to have something to fidget with.

We walked out of the building together without discussing it. It was strange how natural it felt, matching pace without effort, like our steps had agreed on something before we had.

“So,” he said as we reached the sidewalk, “what do you do, Ava?”

There it was. The question that always came too early.

“I work at a small design firm,” I answered, vague on purpose. “Mostly layouts. Branding stuff.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“It is,” I said, then corrected myself. “Most days.”

He smiled, eyes flicking to the road as he hailed a cab. “I’m in physical therapy.”

That surprised me. I’d labelled him for something louder. More obvious.

“For athletes?” I asked.

“For anyone who needs it,” he replied. “Athletes just complain more.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

The sound seemed to please him.

His cab arrived too quickly. He opened the door, then paused. “Listen—I don’t want to be that neighbor, but if I’m ever too loud, you can knock. I promise I’ll answer.”

I imagined knocking. Standing that close again. I didn’t like how easily the image settled into my mind.

“Same,” I said. “Except I won’t answer.”

He grinned. “Duly noted.”

As the cab pulled away, I stood there longer than necessary, watching it disappear down the street.

Back in my apartment that evening, I lay on my couch staring at the ceiling, cataloging the things I now knew about him.

His name. His profession. His music taste. The way he listened like he meant it.

It was too much information for someone I intended to keep at arm’s length.

Later that night, when a soft thud echoed through the wall—followed by a muttered curse—I smiled despite myself.

Thin walls were dangerous things.

They let too much in.