Heart Tunes

THE COOKIES

CHAPTER 4

NOAH

I love baking. Most people get weirdly surprised when they find out. Apparently, tattoos, guitars, and baking cookies don’t fit into society’s idea of masculinity perfectly well but that sounds like society’s problem, honestly.

I got the habit from my mother. Growing up, baking was her coping mechanism. Whenever she was stressed, sad, happy, angry, or simply overwhelmed, she baked. Cakes, bread, cookies, muffins, brownies. Our tiny apartment constantly smelled like vanilla, butter and cinnamon. There was always flour everywhere. When I was younger, I thought all mothers stress-baked at midnight but it turns out mine was just emotionally attached to flour and picked the habit up naturally.

Unlike her though, I don’t bake because I’m emotional, I just genuinely enjoy the process. There’s something satisfying about taking random ingredients and turning them into something people smile at while eating. Music gives me the same feeling sometimes. Creating something from nothing. Maybe that’s why I like both which is exactly why I’m currently standing in front of my landlord’s apartment holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven. Technically, she’s also my neighbor which honestly still feels weird.

This apartment building is probably one of the nicest places I’ve lived in since moving to New York. The place already came half-furnished before I moved in too. Thank you, Chris Owens. I still don’t understand how he convinced the landlord to let me stay here this easily. The building itself is quiet in a comforting way. No unnecessary drama, no loud fighting through the walls at three in the morning, no suspicious smells floating through the hallway. Just peace.

My neighbors are interesting too. There’s Riley, the quiet college girl across the hall who leaves every morning at exactly six and returns around eight every evening like she’s secretly employed by the government. She’s nice though. She always waves when she sees me and one time she admitted she has heard a few of my songs and she likes my music and I baked her a chocolate cake immediately because compliments should be rewarded.

Then there’s Mrs. Carson downstairs. Old, tiny and dangerous. The woman grows peppers like the fate of humanity depends on it. At first I thought she hated me because every time we crossed paths she stared at me with so much intensity like I personally offended her. Thankfully my cookies and muffins slowly changed her mind. Now she beams whenever I knock on her door with the baked goods. Honestly, I’m ninety percent sure she probably likes me more than every other person she knows now which leaves me with my final neighbor.

Scarlett Beaumont.

Or Red.

Depends on my mood.

She also happens to own this entire building(or so the rumours say) apparently which doesn't really surprise me. It actually explains a lot. The ridiculously clean hallways. The expensive renovations. The fact that even the elevators smell rich.

I balance the plate carefully in one hand before knocking on her door. No response. I knock again immediately. Patience has never really been one of my strongest traits.

“I’m coming,” a soft voice calls from inside.

There’s shuffling behind the door before it finally swings open and for a second, my brain genuinely stops working. Red. She’s standing there wearing a dark gray suit like she just walked out of a billion-dollar meeting instead of her apartment on a Saturday evening.

Who voluntarily wears a suit on weekends?

Her red hair falls loosely around her shoulders this time and somehow she looks softer without all the attitude from Neon District. She’s still intimidating though- very intimidating but soft.

“Red,” I greet casually, biting back a smile.

Her eyes narrow instantly. She definitely notices me staring at the suit because she says, “I just got back from work.”

Then immediately adds suspiciously “Are you stalking me?”

I blink. "What?”

“You keep appearing everywhere I go.”

“I live here" I say with a huff.

“That’s technically not a denial.”

I place a hand dramatically against my chest. "You wound me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

A tiny smile almost appears on her face before disappearing quickly. Interesting.

“I wish I had enough free time to stalk people,” I say casually. "Unfortunately, some of us have hobbies and personalities.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them slightly. A hurt expression flashes across her face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t notice it but I do and suddenly I feel like an i***t.

Smooth, Noah. Very smooth.

“I brought you cookies. They're a little burnt because my oven is acting up” I say quickly, holding the plate toward her.

She looks genuinely confused.

“Why would you bring me a plate of cookies?”

“Because that’s what good neighbors do?” It sounds more like a question than an answer. How could she even ask that?

Her expression stays blank for another second before realization slowly settles across her face.

“Oh.” She takes the plate carefully from me like nobody has ever randomly handed her cookies before which honestly feels a little sad. She looks scared that I might snatch the plate back.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

She glances down at the cookies again suspiciously.

“You baked these yourself?” she asks.

“No, I hired a professional grandmother.”

That earns me a tiny laugh. So she laughs? Very interesting.

“You bake?” she asks.

“I can do everything, Red.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are accepting my cookies.”

She shakes her head softly while still staring at the plate. There’s something weirdly endearing about how genuinely surprised she looks. Like kindness confuses her slightly.

“Are you the caretaker or the landlord?” I ask before my brain can stop me. Immediately, I want to throw myself down the staircase.

Scarlett slowly raises one perfect eyebrow.

“I can’t own the building?”

“No, no, you absolutely can,” I say quickly.

She crosses her arms.

“You sounded very shocked.”

“I was shocked respectfully.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It should be.”

The corner of her mouth twitches again. I'm starting to think making Scarlett Beaumont laugh might actually become one of my favorite hobbies. Her eyes look the brightest I've ever seen them.

“Well,” she says eventually, lifting the plate slightly, “thanks for this.”

“You’re welcome.”

Awkward silence settles between us briefly. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just strange. Like neither of us knows what to do with the conversation now that it’s become normal.

“You always have an answer to everything. Why are you so quiet?” she asks, a smile tilting her lips.

“You won't be lucky to always hear my voice" I say soberly.

“That sounds arrogant.”

“I prefer charming" I give her what I assume is my most charming smile.

“You’d lose that argument in court.”

I grin.

“Good thing we’re in a hallway then.”

She rolls her eyes but this time the amusement is obvious. Definitely progress.

“Do you actually live here?” I ask.

“Sometimes” she says with a shrug.

Sometimes?

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m usually working plus this is just my apartment during weekends.”

“That sounds depressing.”

“It sounds responsible. i have to work" she counters.

“It sounds like you need hobbies.”

“I have hobbies.”

“Name three.”

She opens her mouth confidently then pauses. I try very hard not to laugh.

“Oh my God,” I whisper dramatically. “You don’t have hobbies.”

“I do.”

“Work doesn’t count.”

“I read.”

“That’s one.”

“I go to restaurants.”

“That’s eating, a necessity and not a hobby.”

“I hate you already" she groans.

“No you don’t.”

“Confident, huh?" She rolls her eyes again.

“Usually accurate.”

She shakes her head slowly like she’s trying not to smile again.

Honestly, I don’t think Scarlett smiles enough. She looks like somebody who taught herself how to carry the entire world alone and forgot how to relax afterward. Everything about her feels controlled, measured. Even the way she stands and does the most basic thinks like she’s always aware somebody might be watching which is kind of sad for someone so young.

“You think too much,” she says suddenly.

“What?”

“You get this look on your face when you’re analyzing people.”

“No I don't” I argue.

“You’re literally doing it right now.”

I blink. Okay. Maybe she’s right.

“Occupational hazard,” I reply.

“What occupation requires psychological profiling?”

“Being a musician.”

“That explains absolutely nothing.”

“Exactly.”

She sighs softly before glancing at the cookies again.

“You know,” she says carefully, “most tenants just complain about plumbing. They don't bring me treats.”

“I can complain too if you want me to.”

“Please don’t.”

“I could start with the lack elevator music.”

“Why would there be elevator music?”

“You own the building and don’t know have music in the elevator? That makes the trip boring.”

“I barely use the elevator but I'll consider.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

“How many billionaire meetings do you attend daily?” I ask.

“Too many.”

“That explains the suit.”

She looks down at herself briefly like she forgot she was still wearing it.

“You really think it’s weird?” She looks genuinely concerned.

“You look like you’re about to negotiate somebody’s downfall.”

“That’s concerningly specific.”

“I’m observant.”

“You and your observations.”

“You were eating ice cream alone in a park.”

Her eyes narrow into slits.

“That was one time.”

“One tragic, lonely time.”

“I was meeting someone.”

“And they abandoned you.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“A little.”

She stares at me for another second before laughing quietly under her breath. Not the polite small laugh she usually does either. A real one and weirdly enough, I feel proud of myself for causing it. Dangerous, very dangerous.

“Well,” she says eventually, stepping backward slightly. “I should probably let you go.”

“You’re kicking me out already?”

“You’ve been standing here insulting my lifestyle for ten minutes.”

“And giving you cookies.”

“That does improve your case.”

“That’s not fair.”

She shakes her head again before looking down at the plate one last time. Something in her expression changes suddenly. Softens and for the briefest second, her eyes look suspiciously glossy. Like she might cry over chocolate chip cookies. The thought hits me so unexpectedly that my chest tightens a little. Nobody should look surprised by kindness. Nobody. I immediately look away before the moment becomes too personal.

“Goodnight, Red.”

“Goodnight, Carter.”

I turn around and walk toward my apartment. I can still feel her staring at me while I unlock my door. Right before stepping inside, I glance back once.

She’s still standing there looking down at the cookies quietly like she’s trying to understand something. I quickly step into my apartment and shut the door before I can make the mistake of going back.

Scarlett Beaumont is a mystery and I have absolutely no intention of solving her.