Chapter Text
It starts with groceries.
You only set the tons of plastic bags at the top of the stairs for a breather, hanging your head and blowing the air out your cheeks. You had ditched your coat that day, thinking that it would be warm only to be completely freezing all day.
It's the kind of cold that sticks in your bones even after climbing four flights of stairs, holding seven heavy grocery bags. If you were to check your phone you'd see it's only fifteen degrees out, and frankly it's a wonder you aren't crying from how much your joints ache from it. Trying to find the
"tough cookie" you were raised being told was in you, you huff to try and pump yourself up. It's only.. twenty? Thirty? However many more stairs.
You make a groaning sound like maybe you will cry after all. Not to be mistaken with the groan one of the more creaky steps makes a second after. Turning, you find a pair of dark, implacably deep eyes staring up at you. You recognize him immediately, he’s your neighbor from across the hall. Despite that, the most you’ve interacted is polite nods, goodmornings and hellos from you and grunts in reply from him. Even his name is lost on you.
You sigh softly and throw him a nod, promptly doubling over and tugging some of the bags to the right side of the stairs, expecting him to shuffle past you. But he doesn’t. He nods to the sea of plastic and takes a second of squinting, averting his eyes, nervous ticks that don’t make you think he’s insecure per se, more so you think he hasn’t talked to anyone in a hot minute. Then he speaks, and his voice is lower, more rough than you imagined, even though his scraggly beard and burly frame is nothing short of gruffly masculine— “You uh, you want help with that?”
You smile, without really meaning to. Your words are breathy, “Oh, no, no, I’m— I’m okay, I’m almost there.” Your neighbor glances away and his brows furrow. Expecting him to finally get on his way, you start to collect the loops of the bags in your already red fingers. But suddenly he’s beside you, already straightening up with all the bags in his large hands. You open your mouth to insist that it really is okay, but then his fingers brush your palm as he takes the two you grabbed, and you’re caught up trying to recount the scratchy feeling of his callouses.
“Still another floor,” he grunts, nodding his head curtly in explanation, and turning to climb the next flight. There’s barely even a flex to his shoulders at the haul. You hurry to walk next to him; the least you can do is give him company, right? Even though a guy like him doesn’t seem to need it much.
Or maybe he just makes like he doesn’t. Because once you get talking, he seems fine to keep it going. Gruffly, not much of a social butterfly, but with the easiness of a man that maybe once upon a time, really was talkative. “God, you’re a lifesaver.” You sigh, looking at your feet and smiling down at them at your neighbors indifferent sound.
“Couldn’t let a lady carry all this up the stairs.” He shrugs your compliment off. Old school. You kind of liked it.
“So.. not because you saw I’m like, crazy out of shape?”
He laughs. More of a low, brief chuckle, you guess, but it’s not forced. You return it when he tilts his head side to side, humming dubiously and squinting up at the landing above, “Nah, well.. just uh, looked like y’needed a hand.”
“Well, my ego says thanks.” You sigh, pulling the heavy door onto your level open. Theres just a ghost of a smile on your neighbor’s lips, the corners tugging upward underneath his facial hair. But it’s there. “Y’know, and uhm. Me too. I say— uh, just thank you.”
He shakes his head in what you guess is as close to a ‘you’re welcome’ you’ll receive. You expect him to leave your groceries by the door and retire to his own across the hall, so you rub some warmth into your knit sweater clad arms and wait for him to drop the bags. But moments go by, and he’s standing at your apartment door, eventually squinting and cocking a brow at you. “Oh!” You let out, immediately turning pink from embarrassment. At least that warms up your freezing cheeks a little.
Turning the key, you step in and gesture to your kitchen counter, mumbling another thank you and quickly realizing he had a clear look into your living room, entryway, obviously kitchen— your entire life, practically. The thought pops into your head that it might be a mess or god forbid you left something embarrassing lying over the couch. You’re snapped out of it before you can busy around your apartment cleaning everything like a psycho, because suddenly your neighbor is standing right in front of you, and just as suddenly, he appears double as broad. And he smells fucking amazing, too. Like cologne and a lived-in musk that isn’t overpowering, isn’t nasty. It’s manlier than any of the men you’ve ever gone out with who brag about how much they bench, in a quiet yet very clear way.
“Uhm, thank—“
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he cuts you off, shaking his head and reminding you with a lift of his brows that you’ve said that a million times. You smile at your feet, embarrassed all over again.
Maybe it’s because of that embarrassment that the words slip out without you meaning them to, maybe it’s that meek part of your brain that desperately wants to leave a good impression on practically everyone ever. But you find yourself saying, “Do you want some coffee?”
He hesitates. You see it in the way he averts and squints his eyes, lips just barely parted. Just when you’re about to backtrack and say that it’s okay, he doesn’t need to say yes, you’re just trying to thank him— he nods. “Yeah. If it’s no bother.”
You nod right back and let a smile overtake your face. “It’s not!” You slip past him in the small entryway, heading to the coffee maker. Looking over your shoulder, your neighbor is leaning against the opposite countertop and looking around the place. You hope not to judge it; because it’s definitely privy to some critique. Small, kind of shitty, but you have to pat yourself on the back that it’s pretty neat. And you don’t have the worst decorative eye, either.
“I’m uh, I’m Pete.” He grunts while your Keurig grumbles to life. You reach for another pod for yourself, catch his dark chocolate eyes in the meantime. Weirdly, you hadn’t even realized that you didn’t know his name at all. Pete.. didn’t really suit him. But who says that out loud? You tell him your own and he nods, his jaw feathering under his beard. You think you catch his lips moving silently, like he’s testing out the syllables of your name on his tongue.
“Kinda weird,” you laugh lightly, handing him your nicest looking mug, baby blue with navy paisleys around the rim. “I’ve lived here, what, nine months? And I never knew your name.”
Pete grunts, a faint smile tugging at one of his lips. You predicted right; he drinks the coffee black, doesn’t ask for any sugar. You dump a generous amount in yours, though. “Yeah, well. Ain’t good at the whole neighbor thing.”
You nod your chin to the pile of groceries on the counter behind him, grinning at his handsome side profile as he averts his eyes. “I happen to think you’re pretty good at it.” He hums. Squints a little and presses his lips after a greedy sip of coffee. You curl your fingers around your cup, sighing softly at the heat of it. The air was absolutely frigid in the apartment, you were surprised that your shower water didn’t freeze the moment it left the faucet. “I’m sorry about, uhm.. how cold it is. Heaters broken, and y’know how the landlady is.”
That seems to grab Pete’s attention. His brows draw, and you take the chance to really look at him. He was undeniably handsome, dark hair, a bulky nose and puppy-dog eyes even despite the clear hard shell he wore. He wore solely dark colors, a black hoodie under a black jacket, dark, nearly black jeans. Like he was going to a funeral, or mourning, you thought. Definitely the brooding type. But he had this weird charm, cool and without any effort to have it, it simply rolled off him in easy droves. The set of his shoulders and the heaviness of his steps; calm, but not off-guard. He nods thoughtfully, and you’re noticing his little mannerisms. He tilts his chin and averts his eyes around the room as he speaks, punctuating each word with a nod or a shake of his head.
“How long’s it been broken?” He sets down a quarter-full mug beside him on the countertop, brow tight. You shrug, fisting your hands in the sleeves of your sweater to warm your fingers.
“Maybe.. a month?” He nods almost gravely. It’s not much longer before he thanks you for the coffee, waves off your own thanks for the help, and returns to his door across the hall. You spent the rest of the afternoon and the sacred time between laying your head on the pillow and drifting off thinking about him, endlessly. Trying to recall that distinct smell that lingered on his neck, every gravelly word he uttered. Putting the pieces together as they came back to you while you brushed your teeth or slipped on fuzzy socks. The interaction coupled with the blessed knowledge that tomorrow was a Sunday, you sleep like a baby.
You intend to spend the next morning lazy. You wake up just before noon, eating cereal on your couch and rewatching episodes of House MD you already know the plot twist of. Fresh morning light that nearly smells like linen filtering in through your window, and just as you’re settling into your couch, decked in a cotton Victorias Secret set and with hair in a protective braid, there’s a knock at your door. You sigh, setting down your steaming cup of coffee and getting ready to let a solicitor disrupt your ‘me-time’-morning. But when you open the door it’s none other than your neighbor. Whose eyes look even better right in front of you than they do in the back of your eyelids.
“Hey.” It’s all he says, grunted low, his expression almost shy. Crazy for a macho, rough-road man who looks like he could crush your femur in his palm. Strangely, you don’t even think of that. Instead you focus on his perfectly fitting gray sweater over dark blue jeans— simple and handsome. Your eyes catch on the toolbox he’s holding. “You uh, mentioned your heater. Figured..” his eyes leave yours for an instant, he squints. “S’too cold t’be waitin’ for the landlady to send somebody. You’ll uh.. you’ll freeze, y’know.”
You nod, a little stunned, a little delighted as you step aside to let him in. In a sigh, you say, “You’re absolutely my favorite neighbor.”
That gets a chuckle out of the guy. You’re starting to learn him, like a little girl figuring out how to balance her weight on a bicycle. Without any worded instructions. You just.. Find it out. He doesn’t laugh, not outright, not with his chest. He huffs through his nostrils, he barks a rough sound, his cheeks push up into his eyes just barely enough for you to decipher that he’s smiling. He brushes past you and makes his way to the radiator, silently looking over it like he’s sizing up his workload.
“You’re really, really too kind, Pete.” Something about the square of his shoulders stiffens when you say his name, but you keep on. “How much will I owe you?”
Pete shakes his head firmly, not even looking at you where you lean against the kitchen island. His mouth yawns open like he’s about to speak, but you cut him off. “Oh, come on. I need to pay you, you can’t work for free. Especially not on your day off.” He makes a noncommittal sound, scratching his beard as he shakes his head yet again. You huff like he’s ridiculous. “Please. I don’t like having debt.”
Maybe that gets him. Finally, he grumbles over his shoulder, “Y’can make me some coffee.” As if that comes close to settling the matter, but it’s something, and you’ll take it. Your freezing apartment is one less thing you have to worry about, so it’s onto the next; your closet is a total wreck. So, you leave your bedroom door wide open a few feet deeper into the apartment than the radiator, and try to give him as much company as you can with a wall between you. You figured he wouldn’t like you hovering over him while he worked anyway. And you’re right.
You don’t talk his ear off. But when you do talk, about the dog you’d been eyeing online and trying to work out the logistics of hiding from the landlady, or about your older coworker— well, you can’t see it, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. A smile that’s careful, hesitant like he doesn’t quite remember how, like he’s trying to retrace his steps.
When you’re finished with your closet, and you wander into the living room sighing, “I feel lighter! And this heater, too, thank god I can finally stop calling Ms. Jiandinski for it.. I can’t thank you enough, Pete,” he feels something he doesn’t need to find his way back to. The guilt, it’s familiar, clenches at his chest as naturally as the filling of his lungs when he breathes. Something is just slightly off-kilter, though, he’s terribly aware of it as he chews the inside of his cheek and cranks the wrench taut. It’s guilt, yes, but the source is.. falsity. He’s a fraud. A liar, in a way. And though he does it every day, lives that lie— it feels wrong to let it touch you.
So he doesn't look up from the heater he’s busting his ass over (and the effort’s pretty visible in the noticeable bulge of his biceps under his rolled-up sweater sleeves, you try to not stare,) when he grunts, “Frank.”
Your brows draw as you take a sip of your now-cold coffee you forgot on the counter. “What?”
Frank stops, looking over his shoulder at you with a feathering jaw and a grave look in his eyes. They hold your gaze for a lingering moment, enough time for something warm in your chest to stir, before he looks away and nods tightly. “My name. It’s Frank.”
“…Not Pete.” You’re thoroughly confused, now, but something about his tone with the admission makes you feel as though it’s more than what most people get out of him. He nods again, silent. So you mirror him, tilt your chin curt and firm. “Frank suits you better.”
His lips turn upward almost imperceptibly, and he looks back to the heater. Clicking the funneled paneling back into place, and twisting a bolt first with his calloused fingers and then with the wrench, Frank mutters, “I’m, uh. All done here.”
As he stands, you smile toothy and cross your arms. “Okay, seriously now. I owe you more than a cup of coffee.”
“Nah, you don’t.” Frank shakes his head adamantly, squinting at the window and then you. You huff indignantly. What a stubborn ass. Well, stubborn ass that has now done you two favors and won’t let you do more for him in return than click a button on your Keurig. You tilt your head and lift your eyebrows, trying to bully him into it. But he doesn’t seem the pushover type.
You pout. Luckily you aren’t looking at his grip on his toolbox, because otherwise you would see the flex of his fingers when you make that damn face. He doesn’t make any moves to leave, just turns his cheek. “C’mon.”
“C’mon nothing,” he mocks in a huffed chuckle, like you’re ridiculous but he doesn’t have the heart to be completely annoyed. He even punctuates his point with your name, firm and no-nonsense. He really was a stubborn ass.
You shift your weight, chew on the inside of your cheek. Nodding slow, you narrow your eyes at him. He mirrors you, like he sees the gleam in your eye. You’re up to something. But you nod, quicker, like you’re sealing off the deal. “Okay. Well.. Thank you, Frank. I’d say I owe you, but..” You shoot him a grin, cheeky as anything as he makes his way to the door, pivoting on his heel to look back at you.
That’s the first time Frank really does smile back at you. Teeth and all. It’s weird, the feeling it stirs in you. Like you want to chase it, over and over, keep this rugged, solitary man across the hall smiling constantly, with his shoulders too broad and heavy to not have some old weight. And the busted nose, the perpetually furrowed brow, the..
You remind yourself that you can’t let this go too far. Whatever is nestling in the silence between you two right now, the one you don’t know how to break, it would be smartest to leave it at… Friendly neighbors. Nobody wants their much-younger neighbor to come onto them, act like there’s something there when there isn’t. You don’t wanna ruin the one friendship you have in the building, besides the one you have with the resident fire escape tabby who’s owner lives in the apartment above you.. But then, Frank’s eyes give you a moment of privacy, then land on you intense as ever. He taps the handle, muttering, “Lock this.”