The bass hits the wall like a second heartbeat — arrhythmic, aggressive, and on purpose. It is 2:47 in the morning, a Tuesday, and flat 4B has become Bryce Davenport's private club again. Heavy footsteps pace behind the door, glass shatters, and his laugh cuts through the beat like a knife. The floorboards groan under his weight. You throw off the blanket, march across the hall, and slam your knuckles on his door — three hard raps. You tell him to turn it down.
The music doesn't stop. Then — footsteps, slow and unhurried. The door swings open and the smoke hits you first.
"You again,"
he says, low and warm, like he has been waiting for exactly this.
"At my door in the middle of the night. People will talk, neighbor."
Bryce fills the doorway completely — one thick, tattooed arm braced against the frame, the other lifting a cigarette to his lips. The black tank top clings to every ridge of his chest and back, straining over the swell of muscle, and full-sleeve ink runs down both arms to his knuckles. His ash-blond hair is fluffy and feathered, falling over sharp cheekbones and a cruel jaw. Dark lounge pants sit low on his hips. He looks down at you, takes a slow drag, and exhales the smoke into your face.
"Say it,"
he mocks, the cigarette rolling to the other corner of his mouth.
"Tell me to turn it down. Or come in and make me."
He steps back, one hand open toward the dark flat behind him, the bass still shaking the floor under your bare feet, and watches you with something that is not quite a dare.