Mariah's cackle died mid-breath, and her grin curved into something positively wicked. "Oh! My! God!" Her cackle rang through the apartment as she swung the door open wider. "Ohhh, Nyelle," she sang, drawing out my name as if she'd just won the lottery. "Your neighbors are hot."

I whipped around, my heart leaping to my throat. That sinking feeling slammed into me again, harder this time, because there he was.

The guy from earlier. He was still shirtless, but his earbuds were gone now. Standing in the doorway with a plastic takeout bag dangling from one hand.

And me? Standing in the middle of the living room in nothing but a Lacey bra and my old running shorts, skin still flushed from unpacking in the sweltering heat. My first instinct was to dive behind the nearest stack of boxes, but it was too late, his eyes had already flicked over, pausing long enough to heat my skin from the inside out before sliding away again. Indifferent. Like I was nothing more than a blurry background object.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

I pulled the blanket off the couch so fast it nearly knocked over the lamp, clutching it around me like some desperate toga.

"Well, hello there, neighbor," Mariah teased loudly, leaning on the frame like she was auditioning for a rom-com. "You here to welcome us with pie, or are abs your housewarming gift?"

"Mariah," I hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at her, but it only made her grin widen.

"I think your food's here." He finally spoke.

Sure enough, he held up a plastic bag with the logo of the Thai place down the street printed across it. He extended the bag toward me with an unreadable expression. "The delivery guy left it with me, and the receipt had your apartment number. Thought I'd bring it over."

His voice was deeper than I expected. Controlled too, no fumbling like mine always did when strangers were involved.

I reached out with trembling fingers, yanking the bag from him like it was some kind of lifeline. "Th-thank you," I muttered, clutching it to my chest.

Mariah's grin was wide enough to swallow the moon. "What's your name, neighbor?"

His gaze flicked from her to me, then back again. If he noticed the blanket and the frantic way I wouldn't meet his eyes, he didn't let on.

"Lloyd." And with that, he turned, walking back down the hall without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

Mariah shut the door with exaggerated slowness, then spun toward me like she was winding up for a performance. "Lloyd," she repeated in a dreamy sigh. "Even his name sounds illegal."

I groaned into the blanket. "Can we not?"

"Not? Babe, that man was a walking thirst trap."

"Please stop talking."

She ignored me completely, fanning herself. "I swear, if I die of heatstroke, it won't be the AC. It'll be him. Tall, quiet, and oh so sinful!"

I peeked out from under the blanket, glaring. "You are insufferable."

She grinned. "And you're blushing."

I wasn't... I totally was. My cheeks burned so hot it felt like my skin could light up the whole room. The image of him, the casual confidence, and the way his eyes had lingered a moment too long replayed on a loop I couldn't stop.

I groaned into the blanket, wishing I could smother myself in it.

She only laughed, kicking her legs up on the coffee table. " The man could open jars for me any day. Hell, forget jars, he could crack me open."

"Mariah!" My voice cracked with mortification, clinging to every syllable.

"What? I'm just appreciating fine art." She let out a dreamy sigh. "If I weren't already drowning in finals and didn't have an amazing boyfriend, I'd make it my part-time job to climb that man like a tree."

I peeked out from the folds of the blanket just enough to glare at her.

"You're ridiculous," I muttered, though my voice was muffled against the fabric.

She smirked, unbothered. "You're welcome. Someone has to say what you're too busy pretending not to think."

My cheeks burned hotter, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

She stretched out on the couch like a queen, sipping from her soda and watching me with a mischievous smirk. "Let me be real for a sec..." Her tone shifted into a serious one, enough to make me open my eyes. "Guys like him? They don't commit. That cold, unbothered energy? He screams heartbreak waiting to happen."

My stomach sank. She wasn't wrong. There had been something about him, his detachment, and the way he barely acknowledged us... I didn't know why, but that stung more than it should have.

She wagged her finger at me. "If you ever, ever, find yourself tangled up with him, promise me you'll be careful. I like you too much to scrape you off the floor."

"I'm not..." I started too quickly, and immediately regretted how defensive it sounded. "I'm not planning to get tangled with anyone."

She grinned. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

The greasy white bags passed between us, and the smell of fried rice and dumplings filled the apartment.

Mariah tore into hers immediately, cross-legged on the floor between a pile of unopened boxes, chopsticks clicking as she hummed her approval. "Mmm, nothing says 'new apartment' like MSG and poor life choices."

I smiled, nibbling slower, trying to keep the sauce from dripping on my only clean blanket. "You'd eat takeout for every meal if you could."

"And die happy," she shot back, waving her chopsticks.

Her ridiculousness made me laugh, the kind that slipped out before my brain could catch it. For a few minutes, it felt like the heat, mess, and even the awkwardness of earlier blurred behind the simple act of eating together.

Once the cartons were empty and stacked like trophies, Mariah clapped her hands. "Alright, back to labor."

"Slave driver," I muttered, pushing myself up.

"Slave driver who brought soda and helped haul your ass up two flights of stairs. You're welcome."

The heat made everything sluggish, and sweat clung to my skin no matter how many times I wiped at it. Still, we pushed through, unpacking box after box, rearranging furniture, trying to wrestle some semblance of order out of the chaos.

With her tossing out commentary the entire time. It was background noise I didn't know I needed. Piece by piece, the apartment began to look less like a stranger's storage unit and more like mine.

By the time night fell, a much-needed breeze snuck through the curtains, carrying with it the sound of distant traffic and the faint hum of a summer night. For the first time since morning, I exhaled.

Mariah plopped down, hair damp from sweating, eyeliner smudged but still somehow making her look effortlessly put together. "Alright, my good deed is done for the day. I'll see you Monday at school, okay? Tomorrow I'm booked solid at work."

"Thanks, Mar. For everything."

She gave me a blatant look. "Don't thank me yet. Just remember what I said about Mr. Tall, hot, and Unbothered."

We walked down the creaky stairs together, the evening air finally forgiving after the day's heat. The breeze carried a faint smell of fried food from somewhere down the block, and I thought, okay, maybe this place isn't so bad after all.

Mariah jingled her car keys, unlocking the battered little sedan she treated like royalty, and gave me a side hug.

"Goodnight, babe. Text me if you start losing your mind in all that quiet."

"Goodnight," I murmured, pulling back with a small smile.

She leaned in again, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her breath tickling my ear. "Don't turn around, but Lloyd is looking at you from the balcony."

Every nerve in my body froze.

She winked, slid into her car, and drove off, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my heart battering itself against my ribs. I didn't have to look to feel that prickle of eyes somewhere above me.

I should've walked inside, closed the door, and pretended it didn't matter.

But curiosity betrayed me. I flicked my gaze up, and he was leaning on the balcony railing, with an unreadable expression, half-shadowed by the dim porch light.

The air between us thickened until I could barely breathe.

I bolted.

More like a frantic penguin shuffle back up the steps, nearly tripping over my own feet, fumbling with the door until it finally gave way.

Once inside, I slammed it shut and pressed my back against the wood, chest heaving.

Monday morning slipped in before I even felt the night settle. I surfaced from sleep slowly, only to stop short the moment awareness fully hit me.

There was heat between my thighs, a soft, unmistakable dampness that made my breath catch. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling my pulse throb in places I didn't want to think about.

I shifted my legs slightly under the sheets, the slickness gathering, reminding me exactly of the dream I hadn't meant to have... and the man who had been at the center of it.

A slow flush crawled up my chest and throat. God. I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified at myself, at how little time I'd been in this new place and yet how deeply the thought of him had settled into me.

I threw the blanket back like it was contaminated, scrambled to my feet, and stood in the center of the room as if distance might dissolve the evidence. But nothing dissolved. The sheets were damp, and my underwear clung to me in a way that made me want to peel off my own skin.

I hadn't had a wet dream in my life. Not once! Sex dreams? Those belonged to other girls, the ones who whispered and giggled in locker rooms about half-naked celebrities or crushes they imagined pressing them into lockers, or hookups after parties, or complained about professors they'd slept with in exchange for grades. Not me. I'd made it through twenty-one years with my mind safely sterile, too consumed with anxiety and survival to waste time on that. Until him. Until one hallway glance and a shirtless delivery.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, pacing toward the bathroom. "Why? Why now? Why him?"

I yanked my clothes off in a frantic heap and bolted for the shower, twisting the knob so hard it squealed.

I scrubbed harder than necessary as if shame could be exfoliated. The spray tangled in my hair, ran down my face, and I groaned out loud, pressing my forehead against the tile.

Of all mornings, it had to be this one. The first Monday of the semester. The day when professors rattled off syllabi like commandments and parking lots turned into battlefields. The day I'd promised myself I would be calm, prepared, and normal.

Instead, I was showering before dawn because my subconscious had staged a private porno starring the neighbor I'd met once.

Pathetic.

"Perfect," I hissed. "Just perfect."

My alarm clock blinked like it was mocking me, reminding me I had forty-five minutes to eat something, find my notebooks, and pretend I hadn't just... yeah.

"Get it together, Nyelle," I told myself.

I yanked on jeans and a tank top, stuffed the sheets into a laundry bag I'd die before letting Mariah see, and I couldn't stop cursing under my breath.

And that made me feel even more pathetic.

By the time I shoved my backpack over my shoulder, my vow had already solidified, this would never happen again. I wouldn't allow it. I'd chain my own brain if I had to. My body had no business conjuring him in the dark.

The city bus was already packed with bleary-eyed students bumping shoulders. I squeezed into a seat near the window, earbuds jammed in, and pressed my forehead to the glass.

I tried to breathe evenly and pretend I was just another returning student, weighed down by dread of textbooks and syllabi. But the memory kept slicing through.

I texted Mariah.

Meet u before class? Need caffeine x10.

She replied instantly, already at Bean & Brew. Save u a seat 💋

When I finally got there, backpack digging into my shoulder, she was perched at a corner table, iced latte in hand, looking obnoxiously alive for eight in the morning.

"First day back, bitch!" she beamed.

I forced a smile, heading for the counter. The line felt eternal, but I ordered my usual black coffee with an extra shot, because if anything could drown this morning in acid, it was caffeine.

When I slid into the seat across from her, she was already talking about a new TA she'd spotted, how unfairly hot he was. I nodded, laughed at the right moments, let her chatter fill the air like plaster over cracks.

I couldn't tell her, or even hint. If Mariah knew, she'd pry, tease, and make it into a story we laughed about later. But this wasn't funny. This was a shame that sat like a stone in my gut.

So I sipped my coffee, scalding my tongue, and pretended to care about her new class schedule.

When the clock chimed half past, we packed up. She looped her arm through mine for the walk across campus, buzzing about her electives, before we split at the quad.

"Text me if you get bored in psych," she called.

I waved, heart hammering, then turned toward my own building.

The familiar smell of flour and butter hit me the moment I stepped into the culinary lab. It was ridiculous how grounding it felt, the clean gleam of the stainless-steel counters, the hum of ovens already preheated, and knives laid out like soldiers. My chest loosened a fraction. This room had always been my sanctuary.

I slipped into my station, setting my knives down with careful reverence most people reserved for prayer. Around me, chatter buzzed, the same voices from years past, some new, some too loud for my comfort. I tugged at the hem of my apron and tried to fade into the rhythm of the room.

"Miss Nyelle," Professor Hart's voice cut through. He was tall, silver-haired, with that perpetually stained chef's coat that somehow made him more authoritative instead of less. He always spotted me, no matter how small I tried to make myself.

"Yes, Chef?" My voice came out quieter than intended, but he didn't seem to mind.

He glanced at the neat way I'd already arranged my tools. "Still, the only student who treats mise en place like a religion. Excellent."

Heat bloomed across my cheeks. Compliments always made me itch. Still, I nodded and murmured, "Thank you, Chef."

The class started, and I fell into the movements like second nature. Today was laminated doughs, croissants, and puff pastry. The part of baking that demanded patience, control, and precision. My wheelhouse.

Around me, some students groaned as their dough tore or their butter leaked. Someone cursed when flour puffed up into their face. I kept my head down, hands steady. The anxiety that gnawed at me everywhere else went silent here, drowned in the logic of ratios and the promise of a clean rise in the oven.

"Perfect lamination," Professor Hart announced when he stopped at my station, lifting the edge of my dough to examine the layers. "As always. If only the rest of you took notes from Miss Nyelle."

A few students shot me looks, some impressed, some irritated, but I pretended not to notice. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and whispered a small, "Thanks."

By the end of class, golden, buttery croissants cooled on my rack, their layers crisp and delicate. The sight alone eased something in me.

When the timer beeped for dismissal, I packed my tools in precise order, wiped down my station until it gleamed, and tugged my backpack onto my shoulders.

The hall outside was noisier, filled with students spilling between classes, but I moved through it like a ghost, hugging the wall. My phone buzzed with a text from Mariah.

"Break time, bitch. Meet me at the fountain."

I exhaled. At least with her, I didn't have to pretend quite as hard.

When I reached the fountain in the quad, she was already there, perched on the stone ledge, iced drink in hand and sunglasses shoved into her curls. She grinned the second she spotted me.

"There's my favorite kitchen witch," she teased, arms open wide.

I rolled my eyes but stepped into her hug anyway, the comfort of it sinking into my bones.

"How was class?" she asked as she pulled back. "Bet you showed those dough-heads who's boss."

I shrugged, biting back the smile tugging at my lips. "It went fine."

"Fine?" She narrowed her eyes. "Translation, you killed it, and Professor Hart probably proposed marriage again."

I laughed despite myself. "Shut up."

Mariah's grin widened. "Never. I live to embarrass you."

We sat together on the fountain ledge, the sun sharp overhead but softened by the breeze that finally, mercifully cut through the heat. Students streamed past, laughing, smoking, and scrolling on their phones.

Mariah launched into a story about her English professor mispronouncing her name three times in a row, her arms flailing as she mimicked his stammer. I listened, sipped from the water bottle I'd packed, and let her chatter steady me.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of steel, steam, and voices. After baking came food science, a lecture heavy with formulas and reactions that most students groaned at. I didn't.

I liked formulas. They made sense. Gluten development, starch gelatinization, and Maillard reactions every process had a cause and an effect. Unlike people, and emotions.

I scribbled notes fast and neat, diagrams crowding the margins. The professor threw out questions no one wanted to answer, and my hand lifted before I could stop myself. His nod came like permission, and I recited the explanation automatically.

A few students turned to glance at me. I felt the heat crawl up my neck, but kept my gaze on the notebook.

By noon, my head buzzed with information, but it was a good kind of buzz. A controlled kind. I stopped by the student café for lunch and ate in the quietest corner I could find. Mariah texted me memes throughout, dramatic GIFs that made me stifle laughter behind my spoon.

Afternoon classes dragged, less engaging, but I powered through them. Menu planning. Restaurant management. Numbers and margins, deadlines and flow charts. None of it thrilled me like the doughs and sauces, but I knew it mattered. Control didn't just live in recipes. It lived in spreadsheets, too.

By late afternoon, the sky softened to gold. I walked across campus with my binder pressed tight to my chest, weaving through clusters of students sprawled on the lawn or lounging by the fountain. Their laughter rose like bubbles, easy and careless. I wasn't jealous, exactly. Just...aware that I didn't fit in that way.

And maybe I didn't want to.

Mariah found me again before my last class, shoving half a bagel into her mouth while rattling off plans for the weekend. A party invite, a movie she wanted to drag me to, and a new restaurant she swore we had to try.

"You're not gonna hide in your cave all semester," she warned, pointing the bagel at me like a dagger.

"I don't hide," I said softly.

She gave me a look.

"Okay," I admitted. "I selectively retreat."

Her laughter rang out, loud enough to turn heads, and I found myself smiling despite the coil of nerves still tight in my chest.

When my final class ended, dusk had already begun to stretch shadows across campus. I packed my things, slung my bag over my shoulder, and made my way toward the bus stop.

That was the thing about school, it was exhausting, overwhelming at times, but here I had order, predictability, professors with syllabi, assignments with due dates, and projects with measurable outcomes.

Here, I knew exactly what was expected of me.

It was only when the bus hissed to a stop in front of my building, and I stepped down onto the sidewalk, that the knot in my stomach returned.

Because home wasn't really safe anymore.

Home had Lloyd.

And whether he was behind his door, on his balcony, or laughing low through the wall, his presence was enough to make every bit of control I'd built during the day start to fray.