Page 10

I open my door.

“Hey, neighbor.”

I look back despite knowing better. He’s leaning against the porch post now, hands tucked into his pockets, looking casual, relaxed, and annoyingly good.

“What?”

“You find out my name yet?”

I pause.

Damn small towns.

His grin tells me he knows exactly what my silence means.

“Zander,” I say.

“Ruby.”

My fingers tighten around the grocery bag. “How do you know my name?”

“Landlord.”

That answer is disappointingly reasonable.

He tips his head. “Ruby suits you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

His gaze travels down my black sweater, lingering briefly on the silver chains at my throat and the dark botanical sleeve peeking past my cuffs, before climbing back to my face.

“Just trying to be neighborly.”

I point a key at his chest. “You’re still obnoxious.”

I slip inside and click the deadbolt shut before he can deliver another line.

For the next hour, peace prevails. I unpack the groceries, take a hot shower, and pull on an oversized sweater and soft shorts. With a fresh mug of tea, I sit at my kitchen table with my sketchbook under the warm glow of the lamp.

This is what I moved here for: rain tapping against the glass, quiet rooms, and clean paper. No sirens, no honking cabs, no upstairs neighbors moving heavy furniture at midnight.

And no rock star next door treating the building like a soundstage.

Then a guitar chord vibrates through the wall.

I freeze.

It isn’t blaring. Not like yesterday. It’s an acoustic progression, slow and rhythmic, picked with clean precision. Against my will, I catch myself tracking the melody.

He’s good. In fact, he’s ridiculously good.

I try to ignore it and shade another leaf on my sketch, but gradually, the tempo picks up. The volume creeps higher.

I set the pencil down.