Chapter 1 - Mara
The hum of the washer fills the first‑floor hallway of Harbor Pointe Apartments, blending with the faint chatter of someone’s TV down the corridor. The walls are a tired sandy beige—it's supposed to look coastal, but mostly it's just dull—and the trim bears faint scuff marks from years of people moving in and out. A fluorescent light flickers above the laundry nook, buzzing like a lazy hornet, throwing uneven shadows across the tile that runs all the way to the stairwell.
It’s early Sunday morning—quiet, still, the kind of still that makes you walk softer just to avoid breaking it. I’m dressed for comfort, not decency: soft sleep shorts, a cropped tee, no shoes, no bra. The hallway tile is icy underfoot, the chill seeping up through my toes, but I don’t care. The building feels half‑asleep, and so do I. My voice carries in the emptiness as I sing quietly, pouring detergent into the washer and swaying just enough to let the rhythm bounce off the walls.
The sound of a door opening breaks through—and then a voice follows, deep and amused. “Didn’t realize Harbor Pointe came with live music this early.”
I jerk hard enough to send the detergent cap skittering across the tile. It spins once, clacking against the wall.
He stands by the glass entry door leading out to the mail kiosk and parking lot—tall, broad‑shouldered, framed by the pale gray morning light filtering through the double doors. A cardboard box rests under one arm. His hair’s a dark blonde, slightly tousled like he’s been running a hand through it while unpacking. Freshly moved in: jeans, worn cowboy boots, and that easy arrogance of someone who knows exactly how good they look before you tell them.
He’s smirking—of course he is. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your concert.” His voice rolls out lazy and smooth, heavy with that southern drawl that turns even casual words into something warm and fluttery.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly too aware that my thin top offers zero camouflage and I'm a little cold. “You didn’t,” I say, trying for calm. “It’s intermission.”
“Good,” he says, grin widening just enough to show the dimple hiding in his left cheek. “I just got in—apartment 205.”
“Figures,” I mutter, bending for the detergent cap before he can notice how warm my face feels.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, still smirking.
I straighten, twisting the lid shut on the detergent. “I’m in 206. Right next to you.”
He repeats it quietly, testing the words: “Next to me.” His grin turns deliberate. “Guess I lucked out.”
“Careful,” I say, pretending to focus on setting the cycle timer. “Flirting with your neighbor this early in the morning might violate quiet hours.”
“Good to know you enforce the rules.” His tone dips, teasing, that accent riding the thin line between charming and infuriating.
“I do,” I say, even though the smile threatens anyway.
He shifts the box in his arms, nodding once toward the stairs. “See you around, 206.”
When his footsteps fade, the hallway feels too still again—but now something hums under my skin like static.
“Terrific,” I murmur into the clatter of the washer lid. “The cocky neighbor has nice shoulders.”
Upstairs, the air smells faintly of new carpet glue and burnt coffee, that odd mix every apartment gets before someone’s really settled in. The second‑floor hallway stretches long and narrow, trimmed with gleaming white baseboards, a faint shaft of sunlight cutting across the far end window overlooking the courtyard.
Apartment 205’s door is wide open. Inside, boxes crowd the entryway, and the scrape of wood sounds against hardwood floors.
I tell myself not to look—but I do anyway. Through the doorway, I spot him crouched beside a half‑built shelf, muscles shifting easily beneath a plain gray T‑shirt as he lines up bolts and panels. The scent of dust and detergent mixes in the air between us.
He glances up, eyes catching mine before I can look away.
“Back to the stage already?” he calls, that half‑smile tugging at his mouth.
I lift my laundry basket, feigning indifference. “Just an encore performance.”
He laughs quietly. “Can’t wait for the live version next time.”
I shake my head and slip into my apartment, refusing to give him the reaction he clearly wants—but my door lingers open a few inches longer than it needs to. Curiosity, apparently, wins every round.
Over the next few hours, it becomes a slow rhythm. Downstairs to load the washer. Upstairs with clean clothes. Passing him again and again—leaning in his doorway now, unwrapping picture frames, the scent of cedar and cologne following me each time I walk by. Our eyes meet once; he gives a small nod, half amusement, half acknowledgment.
By midday, his apartment smells faintly of warm soap and cardboard boxes. Somewhere inside, a blues guitar riff hums low from a speaker, and I catch his voice—quiet, rough, singing just under the melody while he stacks dishes.
The sound threads through the hall, dangerously comfortable. It shouldn’t bother me, but I can already tell: he’s the kind of neighbor who’s going to be impossible to ignore.
My apartment isn’t much, but it’s mine. One of the classic one-bedrooms — the older layout with beige carpet that always looks a little tired no matter how many times I vacuum. The walls are millennial gray, the kitchen’s got laminate counters in a color that tries to imitate stone, and the fridge hums louder than it should. The windows stick whenever it rains, and the blinds rattle when the AC kicks on.
It’s not upgraded, but it’s cozy — a lived-in kind of quiet that feels earned. The kind of place that smells faintly of laundry detergent, lemon cleaner, and the vanilla candle I burned down to the wick last night.
I drop my basket beside the black couch and collapse into the cushions, the fan near the window whispering soft air through the room. Sunlight slants across the glass coffee table, hitting the half-empty bottle of nail polish I’d meant to put away days ago. I grab it, twisting the lid open, and start painting a pale pink shine across my nails.
The noise from next door drifts through the wall — the scrape of furniture, footsteps, a faint hum of something like music under his breath. 205.
He’s not loud — just present. There’s a weight to the sound of him, even when it’s quiet. Every creak of the wall makes me too aware of the fact that he’s right there.
I blow softly on my nails, trying to ignore it.
By the time the polish dries, the sun’s dipping low outside, throwing long shadows over the balcony blinds. I gather up a trash bag from the kitchen — grocery wrappers, paper towels, the usual clutter — and tie it off tight. Time for one last trip to the dumpster.
The hallway greets me with that stale apartment smell — detergent, air freshener, faint traces of takeout — and the buzz of fluorescent lights flickering to life overhead. I’ve just rounded the corner toward the stairs when a familiar voice, lazy and low, drawls from behind me.
“You takin’ the trash out, neighbor?”
I turn, startled but not really surprised. 205 stands in his doorway, barefoot now, wearing a worn hoodie with the sleeves shoved up his forearms. His blond hair is a mess, like he’s run his fingers through it more than once tonight.
“Yeah,” I say, lifting the bag a little. “Trying to keep the place respectable.”
He grins, tilting his head toward my hand. “Want some help?”
“I’ve got it,” I say quickly.
His grin deepens, accent thicker this time. “You sure? Be easier if I did it for you.”
“I don’t need help taking out one bag of trash,” I reply, stepping toward the stairs.
He chuckles, voice gravel-low. “You don’t like lettin’ folks help, do you?”
“Not strangers,” I say over my shoulder.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Guess that’s the problem, then.”
That makes me stop. I turn back just as he steps forward a little, still keeping that easy, infuriating smirk.
“Rhett,” he says finally, offering a hand.
It takes me half a second to shift the trash bag so I can shake it. “Mara.”
He repeats it softly, my name stretching in that slow, southern rhythm. “Mara. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say, though my voice comes out quieter than I intend.
He studies me for a second longer than necessary, eyes amused, curious. “Guess I can stop callin’ you 206 in my head now.”
My mouth lifts before I can stop it. “You were calling me 206?”
“Sure was,” he says, grin flickering wider. “Figured it fit ’til I got the real thing.”
I shake my head, stepping toward the stairwell again before my smile gives me away completely. “Good night, Rhett.”
“Night, Mara,” he says, slow and smooth.
The sound of it follows me all the way outside — that rich, unhurried drawl wrapping around my name like he’s still saying it, even when I know he isn’t.
