Chapter Text
The first thing you notice about your new apartment block is the smell.
Old wood and fresh paint—even something faintly chemical—you’re fairly certain you’re going to blame on the previous tenant if it doesn’t disappear by the end of the week.
It’s not really home yet, especially with all of your belongings still packed into cardboard boxes and the kitchen cupboards completely bare, but it’s yours.
That’s what you keep telling yourself.
You stand in the middle of the living room with your hands on your hips, surveying the mess around you. There are boxes stacked against every wall, a lamp sitting on the floor because you haven't found the table it’s supposed to go on, and a half-built bookcase leaning precariously against the wall.
You’re beginning to regret telling yourself that moving alone would be easy.
The last few months had been a steady collection of things coming undine, most of them beginning with the person whose things were supposed to be in half of these boxes. You’d spent long enough sharing a home with them, long enough convincing yourself that things could be fixed.
One day you finally realised that wanting something to work wasn’t enough to make it work.
So, you left.
You’d told yourself the new apartment was a fresh start. That moving would seem easier than staying somewhere filled with reminders of a life that no longer existed.
You’re still trying to believe it.
The building itself is older than you expected. Narrow hallways, worn wooden floors and radiators that look like they haven’t been touched since the seventies. The elevator had groaned ominously on the way up, so you decided that the stairs were probably the safer option.
There are probably more modern, safer apartments in New York, but the rent here had been reasonable, the neighbourhood seemed quiet, and the apartment had a decent amount of sunlight.
You bend down to pull another box open when you hear the sound of a door opening nearby. You glance toward the hallway, and a man steps out of the apartment beside yours.
He’s tall. Dressed almost entirely in black. Dark jeans, dark shirt and heavy combat boots. There’s something tired about him, not even by the slump in his shoulders, but in the way he moves. Like every step is an effort he doesn’t particularly want to make.
His eyes find yours. You smile automatically.
“Hi.”
He looks at you for half a second, then nods. “Hi.”
Then he walks straight past you. The door at the end of the hallway closes behind him with a quiet click. “Well,” you mutter to yourself, turning back toward your apartment. “He’s friendly.”
You don’t think much more of it. There are far more important things to worry about, like why you apparently own seventeen mugs despite living alone and where on earth you packed those screws for your bed frame.
By late afternoon, you’ve managed to make the apartment look marginally less like a storage unit. Your bedroom is mostly unpacked, the kitchen is functional enough to make coffee, and the living room remains a disaster.
You’re wrestling with a box that is considerably heavier than it looks when you hear footsteps approaching.
The same man from earlier appears at the top of the stairs. He stops when he sees you, and you give him a slightly embarrassed smile.
“Hey.”
He nods once as you try to lift the box again. It doesn’t move, and you exhale sharply. “Okay. Maybe I underestimated myself.”
The man looks at the box, then at you.
You hesitated before asking. “Would you mind holding the door open for me?”
His expression doesn’t change, but he steps forward. He reaches past you, catches the door before it swings shut, and holds it open. You drag the box inside, nearly dropping it twice in the process.
“Thank you.”
He nods again. “Sure.”
And then he’s gone.
The following morning, you make your first attempt at establishing a routine.
You stop at the little café on the corner on your way back from grabbing groceries, grateful for the excuse to get out of the apartment for a while. The morning rush has mostly died down, leaving only a handful of people scattered around the tables. You’re waiting for your coffee when you notice someone familiar standing a few feet away.
He’s waiting for his order, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket wile the other rests against the counter. Up close, the exhaustion is even more obvious. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, his hair is slightly dishevelled, and he looks like he hasn’t had a decent nights sleep in weeks.
You hesitate before offering a small smile. “Morning.”
His eyes shift toward you. “Mornin’.”
You glance toward the barista, then back at him. “I’m getting mine. Do you want me to get yours?”
His brows furrow slightly. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s no trouble, really—”
“I’m getting one.”
You glance at the empty space where his coffee should be, then back at him. “Oh.”
He looks at you for a second. “I’m paying for my own.”
“I know. I was offering.”
“I know.”
There’s something almost dismissive about the way he says it, though not quite rude enough to warrant being offended by it. You shrug. “Okay.”
The barista calls his name from behind the counter.
Frank.
Frank takes his coffee, gives you one final glance then walks toward the door. You watch him leave before collecting your own drink. “Definitely grumpy.” you mutter under your breath.
The day passes quickly after that.
You unpack another handful of boxes, discover that you’ve somehow managed to lose your phone charger, and spend an embarrassing amount of time assemblgin the same bookcase you gave up on yesterday.
By evening, your apartment is finally beginning to feel like yours. You’re carrying another box from the hallway when something slips from your grasp. You've managed to clear most of the hallway, leaving only a few things still waiting to be unpacked.
You carry one of the last boxes toward the living room, nudging your apartment door wider with your elbow as you go. It's heavier than you remember, and your grip slips just as you cross the threshold. Something small tumbles from the top and skitters across the floor.
“Oh, for God's sake.”
You set the box down with a sigh and crouch to retrieve it yourself. The object has rolled beneath the edge of the sofa, forcing you to stretch halfway underneath it before your fingers finally find it.
By the time you stand again, your hair has fallen into your face and you're fairly certain you've collected half the dust from the floor on your shirt.
“Brilliant.”
You tuck the object safely into the box before lifting it again, this time with considerably less confidence.
The apartment is quiet when you finally get everything inside. For the first time since you'd arrived, you close the door behind you without immediately thinking about what still needs doing.
You glance around the room. It isn't home yet. But it's getting there.
You spend the next hour unpacking the last of the essentials before giving up entirely and ordering dinner. By the time you collapse onto the sofa, surrounded by half-empty boxes and the remains of your first takeaway in the new apartment, you decide that tomorrow can deal with whatever is left.