Chapter Text
Mrs. Litchfield has lived in Apartment 3B for twelve years, and in that time she’s developed a keen sense of observation. When her quiet neighbor Nick Burkhardt starts receiving late night visits from a tall, broad-shouldered man in expensive suits, she reaches the only logical conclusion: Nick is being kept by a mafia-affiliated sugar daddy.
She begins her documentation project immediately.
POV: Mrs. Evelyn Litchfield – Retired teacher, local curtain connoisseur, and semi-professional romantic conspiracy theorist.
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Observation Journal Entry – August 3rd, 7:12 PM:
> Subject: Nicholas Burkhardt (Unit 4A)
Status: Solitary. Still handsome. Still suspiciously single.
New development: Unknown male visitor. Tall. Sharp suit. Intimidating jawline. Potential romantic entanglement or blackmail scenario. Further analysis pending.
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Mrs. Evelyn Litchfield did not consider herself nosy.
She considered herself informed.
After all, what sort of neighbor wouldn't take a healthy interest in the man living across the hall? Especially when said man was a) suspiciously quiet, b) built like a police poster model, and c) constantly coming home with new bruises and torn shirts but no plausible explanation. It was practically irresponsible not to monitor him.
She first noticed him six months ago, when he moved into Unit 4A — tall, dark-haired, those blue eyes like a storm before it hits. Polite but distant. Always tired. A tragic air, if she ever saw one. She had made a fresh-baked welcome cobbler and a gentle “Are you emotionally available?” inquiry, but the man — Nicholas — had simply smiled, thanked her, and closed the door.
Unmarried. No girlfriend visits. Quiet. Bleeds sometimes. Possibly haunted.
He was either a vampire, an assassin, or the star of a very dark indie romance.
Evelyn Litchfield lived for possibilities.
And tonight, something was happening.
She peered through the narrow crack between her blinds and the curtain. A man ... no, a force of nature in a suit stood outside Nick’s door. Broad shoulders. Charcoal-gray jacket tailored within an inch of its life. Glossy shoes. Clean-shaven with cheekbones that could cut glass and a scowl that screamed I own the night.
He knocked once. Sharp. Commanding.
Nick opened the door and didn’t even look surprised.
Suspicious.
Evelyn narrowed her eyes. No greeting hug. No handshake. Just one of those weird long silences you only saw in French dramas. The man stepped inside. Nick hesitated, then followed. The door shut.
She pressed her ear against the wall.
Nothing for several minutes. Then—
“This wasn’t part of the deal, Sean!” Nick’s voice — sharp, exasperated.
“Well, maybe you should stop acting like a damn rookie,” came the response. Low. Rough. Silky and furious.
Then… a thud.
Evelyn gasped and slapped a hand over her heart.
Were they fighting? Were they fighting while turned on?
She clutched her teacup and froze.
Another thud. A groan. Something scraped. More angry voices, too muffled to make out.
Then — silence.
Dead silence.
Evelyn’s hand trembled as she set the cup down.
Dear God.
She sat very still, blush blooming across her cheeks.
This was not a normal dispute. This was the kind of angry, urgent tension that usually ended with someone bent over a dining room table.
Her dining room table hadn’t seen action in twenty years, but she could recognize the vibe.
Thirty minutes passed. Then the door opened.
Nick stood there, shirt wrinkled, collar askew, hair tousled like someone had dragged fingers through it repeatedly.
The Man in the Suit followed behind him, adjusting his watch like a man trying to calm his pulse.
> “I’ll handle it,” Nick muttered.
> “You’d better,” said the Suit — Sean, she remembered now. Sean. Of course his name was Sean.
The door closed again. Sean walked off down the hall like he’d just dropped off a package, not possibly ruined a young man’s ability to sit comfortably.
Evelyn made a high-pitched noise and covered her mouth.
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Observation Journal Entry – Continued:
> Name: Sean (no last name yet — possibly Eastern European mafia? Research later.)
Confirmed intimate connection with Nick. Possibly romantic, definitely physical, potentially criminal.
Tone of visit: Dominant-submissive? Implied discipline dynamic? Too early to tell.
Action plan: Bake cookies. Remain casual. Do not ask if they need lube.
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The next day, she saw Nick in the hallway by the mailboxes. He looked... tired.
Poor boy. Probably sore. His jeans did look a little tight. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
She approached with a gentle smile.
> “Rough night, dear?” she asked sweetly.
Nick blinked. “Uh… yeah. Late case.”
> “Mmm.” She nodded, handing him a small paper-wrapped bundle. “Oatmeal raisin. Recovery food.”
Nick looked alarmed.
> “Thanks?”
She patted his arm. “Don’t worry. I don’t judge.”
And then she walked away, leaving him standing there, blinking like a confused puppy.
She heard him mutter, “What just happened?” — and she smiled.
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Observation Journal Addendum:
> Nick possibly unaware I know. Must keep watching. Pattern will emerge.
Also: check if Nick has rope burns next time he wears short sleeves.