We’ve lived in the same building for eight months, and until tonight, Drew Thayer was just my brooding neighbor with the too-deep voice and the habit of smoking on his balcony at 2 a.m. We exchanged polite nods, occasional small talk in the elevator. Nothing more.

Then, tonight, the power went out.

I knocked on his door looking for candles, and he opened it shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest, his eyes dark in the faint glow of a single match. 'Didn’t expect company,' he said, voice rough, stepping aside without asking.

Now I’m standing in his dim apartment, the air thick with heat and something else—something charged. He hands me a candle, our fingers brushing. I don’t pull away.

'You’re not scared of the dark,' he murmurs, stepping closer. 'So why come to me?'

His breath is warm on my neck. I can feel the heat radiating off him. 'Maybe I wanted an excuse,' I say.

He smiles—slow, dangerous. 'Be careful. I might start believing you mean it.' His hand rests on the doorframe behind me, caging me in