THE BOY NEXT DOOR

CHAPTER.5: Phone Call.

The morning sun spilled into my apartment like an uninvited guest, cutting through the half-drawn blinds and landing directly on my face. I groaned, rolling over, wishing I could pull the shadows back across the room and stay hidden.

The night before replayed in fragments. Damon’s knock. The noodles. His questions. The way his voice shifted, softer, slower, as if he actually cared about the answers.

It was unsettling.

And maybe worse, it lingered.

I dragged myself out of bed, padding across the floor to the kitchen. The boxes were still stacked, untouched. My stomach clenched at the thought of tackling them alone.

A knock interrupted me. Again.

I froze. For a wild second, I wondered if Damon had developed a sixth sense about my moods.

When I opened the door, there he was—fully dressed this time, in a plain gray t-shirt and black joggers, a paper bag dangling from his hand. His clean-shaven head caught the sunlight, his jaw sharper than ever without a trace of stubble.

“Morning, neighbor,” he said, like he’d been doing this for years.

I narrowed my eyes. “Do you just… knock on everyone’s door this much?”

“Nope. Just yours.” He lifted the bag. “Coffee and muffins. Figured you’d need both.”

The thoughtfulness threw me again. He wasn’t teasing, not exactly. His tone was casual, but his eyes searched mine like he wanted to check if I’d slept, if I was okay.

I hesitated, then stepped aside. “Fine. Come in.”

⸻

We sat on the couch this time, balancing coffee cups and warm blueberry muffins on a stack of unopened books. Damon leaned back, stretching out like my apartment was his second home.

“You don’t sit still, do you?” I asked, watching him.

He smirked. “Not unless someone makes me. You volunteering?”

I rolled my eyes, biting into the muffin. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, sipping his coffee, “here I am, feeding you breakfast.”

Despite myself, a laugh slipped out. He grinned, clearly satisfied with himself. But then his tone shifted again, just like it had the night before.

“You sure you’re okay here? Alone?”

The question caught me mid-bite. I swallowed hard. “Why do you keep asking that?”

“Because I keep getting the same answer,” he said quietly, “and I don’t believe it.”

His words sat heavy between us. I wanted to argue, to deflect, but instead I found myself staring into my coffee cup, the steam rising like a curtain I could hide behind.

“I’m fine,” I said eventually, softer this time.

He tilted his head, not buying it. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who’s fine.”

That stung more than I expected.

⸻

We finished breakfast in relative silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Damon seemed to sense my retreat, giving me space while still… being there. It was unnerving how easily he filled the quiet.

When I finally stood to clear the cups, he beat me to it, carrying them into the kitchen with the kind of ease that made me wonder how many times he’d done this before—for someone else, somewhere else.

When he returned, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “So, what’s your plan today? More unpacking? Or are you going to keep staring at that box in the corner?”

My head snapped up. “You noticed that?”

His eyes softened. “Hard not to. You look at it like it might bite.”

I bristled, defensive, but before I could answer, he grinned. “Relax. I’m not asking what’s inside. Not yet, anyway.”

“Not ever,” I corrected.

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Not ever. But if it decides to jump out and attack you, I expect a call.”

I snorted. “A call?”

“Yeah.” He stepped closer, pulling his phone from his pocket and holding it out. “Give me your number.”

The demand was so casual it knocked the breath out of me. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, smirking again, “I’m your guardian angel. One phone call away.”

I blinked at him, torn between laughing and rolling my eyes. “Guardian angel? You?”

“You doubt me?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I saved you from starvation last night and caffeine withdrawal this morning. That’s practically divine intervention.”

I couldn’t stop the laugh this time. It burst out before I could swallow it down, warm and unfamiliar in my throat. Damon’s grin widened, triumphant.

“See? You’re already happier with me around. Imagine what I could do with your number.”

Shaking my head, I took his phone and typed it in, handing it back without ceremony.

His gaze flicked to the screen, then back to me. “Sara,” he said slowly, like testing the sound of it. “Nice name.”

I fought the heat rising to my cheeks. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” His smirk returned, but softer this time, not the sharp-edged one I’d first met. “Now I’ve got you. No escaping.”

⸻

The words hung heavier than he meant them to, I think. Because escape was exactly what I’d been trying to do—escaping the past, the memories, the weight I carried alone.

And here was Damon, the loud neighbor who should’ve been nothing more than an irritation, standing in my kitchen like he belonged, holding my number like it meant something.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, it didn’t feel like a mistake. Not yet.

⸻

Later, when he finally left, the apartment felt too quiet again. The boxes loomed. The photo in the corner box still burned at the edge of my thoughts.

But for the first time since I’d moved in, the silence didn’t feel unbearable.

Because if it got too heavy, too loud in my head, too much—

I knew I was just one phone call away.