CHAPTER 1 – Noise Complaint, Party of Two
The first thing Mia heard when she moved into apartment 5B was her ceiling.
More accurately: her upstairs neighbor, who apparently believed 11 p.m. was the perfect time to rearrange furniture, tap-dance, or summon thunder using only his feet.
THUD.
SCRAPE.
THUD-THUD-THUD.
Mia stared at the half-unpacked boxes in her living room and took a deep, calming breath.
“You moved to the city for peace and a fresh start,” she reminded herself. “You will not commit homicide on day one.”
The ceiling boomed again, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a bowling ball rolling from one side of the apartment to the other.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Maybe just light assault.”
Her best friend Hana texted at that exact moment.
Hana: How’s the new place??
Mia: Great! Love the walls. Love the windows. Love the herd of elephants above my head.
Hana: Hot elephants? 👀
Mia: IF THEY ARE HOT I WILL STILL CALL THE POLICE
The thudding intensified, now accompanied by… music? Faint, muffled guitar chords drifted down through the building.
Mia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of course he’s a musician.”
She lasted seventeen more minutes before giving up on being a reasonable adult.
Grabbing her hoodie, she marched out of 5B, up one flight of stairs, and stopped in front of 6B. From behind the door came a tragic combination of rock riff and enthusiastic humming.
She knocked.
The music didn’t stop.
She knocked harder.
The guitar cut off mid-chord. There was a muffled swear, the scrape of a chair, and then the door swung open.
Mia had prepared herself for a man in his forties with headphones and a mysterious hatred of carpets.
She was not prepared for… this.
Her upstairs neighbor was tall, lopsidedly handsome, and barefoot, with dark hair that looked like it had lost a fight with gravity. He wore an oversized T-shirt with a faded band logo and pajama pants with tiny sharks on them. A guitar strap hung across his chest.
He blinked at her, as though trying to place whether she was food delivery or an angry ghost.
“Hi,” he said. “If you’re selling something, I promise I don’t have money.”
Mia forgot her pre-rehearsed speech. “You’re… loud.”
“Not my best icebreaker, but okay.” He leaned against the door frame. “I’m Hayden.”
“I’m your neighbor from 5B,” she said, crossing her arms. “I just moved in today. I’m trying to unpack without suffering a heart attack every time you drop whatever you keep dropping.”
“Ah.” His face lit with understanding. “You can hear that?”
“Yes,” Mia said. “And the guitar. And the humming. And either tap dancing or a very intense workout.”
“Air drums,” he admitted. “Sometimes I get excited and forget floors exist.”
“Well, they do,” she said. “And so do noise complaints.”
Instead of being offended, he grinned. “Is this you issuing one?”
“Yes,” she said. “Consider this an official, very polite complaint.”
“Polite?” He glanced pointedly at her crossed arms and scowl. “On a scale of one to ‘neighbors who leave notes written in blood on your door,’ I’d give you a solid seven.”
“This is my calm face.”
“I’m terrified.”
He didn’t look terrified. He looked entertained. Which made Mia even more annoyed—and, annoyingly, a little amused.
“Look,” she said, forcing her voice into something friendlier. “I get it. It’s Saturday night. Live your life. Just maybe… live it a bit less directly above my head?”
Hayden considered this. “Counter offer: come upstairs next time, and I’ll give you earplugs and a drink.”
“That’s… not how noise reduction works.”
“It is if the drink is strong enough.”
Mia exhaled, half a laugh slipping out. “I moved here for quiet so I could actually write.”
“Oh, you’re a writer?” His eyes brightened. “Of what? Novels? True crime? Spicy fanfic?”
She spluttered. “Definitely not the last one.”
“So that’s a yes on the first two,” he said smugly.
“I’m working on a novel,” she admitted. “Or I will be, once my furniture stops trying to shake itself apart.”
Hayden’s expression shifted—just a bit. “Okay. That’s fair.”
She blinked. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “My old neighbor used to bang on the ceiling with a broomstick. You, at least, used words.”
“Words are more efficient,” Mia said. “And less likely to damage infrastructure.”
“Tell you what.” He slung the guitar off his shoulder and leaned it against the wall. “I have a gig in a few weeks, and I’ve been practicing like a man possessed. I’ll move my amp and drum pad into the tiny spare room and put down extra rugs. I can’t promise total silence, but I can avoid after ten p.m.”
She stared at him. She had not expected compromise. She had expected defensive musician ego and a potential war.
“That… would be great,” she said, thrown off balance. “Thanks.”
“Also,” he added, “welcome to the building. Mrs. Gomez in 5A will try to feed you empanadas until you explode, the guy in 4C collects swords—don’t ask—and the elevator has the personality of a retired drama queen. Any questions?”
“Why are your pajama pants covered in sharks?”
He looked down. “These are limited edition. Don’t be jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” she said. “I’m concerned.”
He laughed, full and unexpectedly warm. “You’re funny, 5B.”
“It’s Mia.”
“Mia,” he repeated, like he was trying the name on. “I’ll try to keep it down, Mia.”
“Thank you,” she said, then remembered basic human politeness. “And, um, sorry for barging in. I had a long day. Moving. Boxes. A bus driver who hates joy.”
“No apology necessary.” He tilted his head. “Moving sucks. If you need help lifting anything, I’m available for a very reasonable price.”
“What’s the price?”
“Payment in coffee,” he said immediately. “Or tea. Or baked goods. I also accept applause.”
“Noted,” she said. “Good night, Hayden.”
“Good night, Mia-from-5B.”
She turned to leave, then paused as a thought hit her.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she said, glancing back.
“Yeah?”
“If you ever feel the urge to rehearse a drum solo at three in the morning, just remember that I know where you live.”
His grin flashed, crooked and infuriating. “Romantic.”
She rolled her eyes and headed downstairs.
By midnight, the apartment was quiet.
Truly quiet.
Mia sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-unpacked box of books beside her, laptop balanced on her knees. The cursor blinked accusingly on a blank document.
She told herself she’d been too busy being annoyed to write earlier. Now she had no excuse.
She typed: Chapter One.
Then deleted it.
Typed again: The first day she met her upstairs neighbor, she almost filed a noise complaint and instead found a pair of shark-print pajama pants.
She stared at the sentence.
Groaned.
And, reluctantly, smiled.
“Absolutely not,” she told the laptop. “You’re supposed to be about a haunted bookstore.”
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
Hey, it’s Hayden from 6B. I realized I did, in fact, drop a dumbbell earlier. Sorry if I almost killed your ceiling.
Also, here’s my number in case you need emergency quiet hours.
Mia considered the message.
Mia:
Noted. I’ll save this as “Source of Thunder.”
Thanks for keeping it down. I can actually hear my own thoughts now.
A moment later:
Hayden:
Are your thoughts as loud as my guitar?
because if so the building is doomed
She snorted.
Mia:
My thoughts are organized and quiet. Unlike your music.
Go to sleep, Shark Pants.
Hayden:
goodnight, Noise Complainer 💫
Mia shook her head, still smiling, and set the phone aside.
Maybe the city wasn’t going to be as peaceful as she’d imagined.
But as her fingers finally began to move across the keyboard, words forming faster than they had in months, she realized something:
Peaceful was overrated.
Sometimes what you needed was a little noise next door.
Even if it came with shark pajamas.
