How to hate the guy next door

Episode 1: The One O'clock Rule If the bass line vibrating through my bedroom wall thrummed for one more second, somebody was going to end up in the emergency room. It was 1:14 AM on a Tuesday. I had a 9:00 AM deadline with my publisher, two cold cups of chamomile tea sitting on my desk, and a brain that felt like wet cement. Thump. Thump. Thump. I dropped my Apple Pencil onto the tablet, shoved my chair back, and snatched my apartment keys off the counter. I didn't care that I was wearing faded grey sweatpants and an oversized faded t-shirt. I didn't care that my hair probably looked like a bird’s nest. I stormed out into the dimly lit fourth-floor hallway, took three furious steps to the right, and slammed the flat of my hand against the door marked 4B. BANG. BANG. BANG. "Open up!" I shouted, loud enough to wake the dead. "Open this damn door before I call the landlord, the police, and the city council!" The music didn't stop, but five seconds later, the heavy deadbolt clicked. The door swung open, and the breath caught squarely in my throat—though I would rather swallow glass than admit it out loud. Standing in the doorway was Julian. He wasn't dressed for a party. He wasn't even fully dressed. He stood there barefoot, wearing nothing but low-slung dark grey sweatpants that hung recklessly off his hips. Sweat glistened across his broad chest, his dark hair messy and damp, like he’d just finished a brutal workout. Worse than all of that? He was smiling. A slow, arrogant, completely infuriating smirk. "Well, good morning, neighbor," Julian purred, leaning his shoulder casually against the doorframe. His hazel eyes swept down my appearance, lingering on my fuzzy slippers for half a second longer than necessary. "Did you miss me, or are you just lonely over in 4A?" "It is one in the morning," I said through gritted teeth, stepping closer and poking a finger directly into his chest. His skin was warm. Infuriatingly warm. "Turn. It. Off." Julian didn't even flinch. He looked down at my finger on his sternum, then back up into my eyes, his smirk widening into something dangerous. "I'm in the middle of a set, Leo," he said softly, taking a single, deliberate step forward into the hallway. I was forced to take a step back, but I refused to break eye contact. "I don't care if you're training for the Olympics," I hissed, my voice dropping into a low, deadly register. "Some of us actually work for a living. Some of us don't spend our nights preening in front of mirrors and shaking the foundation of a fifty-year-old building!" "Preening?" Julian let out a low chuckle, stepping out into the hall completely, crowding me until the heat radiating off him was practically suffocating. He was taller than me, built like a brick wall, and he used every inch of it to loom over me. "I work two jobs, Leo. Night time is the only time I get to train." "Then buy headphones!" "Headphones slip when you sweat," Julian whispered, leaning down until his lips were bare inches from my ear. I caught the faint scent of cedar and mint, and my stomach did a betraying, chaotic flip. "Besides... I kind of like knowing you're up in your bed, thinking about me." My face flushed hot pure, unadulterated fury. "You are the most arrogant, obnoxious piece of work I have ever had the misfortune of living next to," I spat, reaching out and grabbing the edge of his open door. "Turn it down. Now." I yanked the door, intending to slam it right in his smug face. CLANG. Julian’s hand shot out like lightning, his large palm catching the edge of the heavy door before it could latch. He didn't push it back open. He just held it steady, his dark eyes darkening as the playful smirk vanished, replaced by an intense, razor-sharp tension. He lowered his head until our noses were practically touching, his thumb caressing the edge of the wood. "Get used to the noise, neighbor," Julian murmured, his voice thick with a promise that set my skin on fire. "I signed a two-year lease... and I'm just getting started on you.