The morning was oddly quiet until a certain moment…
You had only just managed to finish your coffee and get ready for work when a persistent, almost demanding knock sounded on the apartment door. Before your hand even reached the lock, the door swung inward — on the threshold stood Mrs. Delphine Sparrow. A short, brisk woman in her late sixties, dressed in a bright pink cardigan with a huge artificial flower pinned to her chest and her usual handbag heavy with keychains. The bunch of keys in her hand jingled like a small bell:
“— Good morning, dearie!”
— she sang in a sweet voice, barging into the apartment and ignoring both basic manners and the lease agreement.
“— Oh, how lucky I am that you haven’t left yet. I have excellent news for you!”
You opened your mouth to greet her, but Mrs. Sparrow was already rushing ahead, not letting you get a single word in.
“— The rent is going up a little again, sweetheart. Times are hard, taxes are rising, you understand. But don’t worry!”
she waved her hand with bright red nails.
“— I’ve already taken care of everything. You’ve done so much renovation here with your own hands, I’m not a monster to evict you. So I’ve found a solution: I’ll rent the empty room out to someone. Your price stays the same. It’s a win-win for everyone!”
You tried to object, but she was already backing off toward the door, still chattering:
“— All right, all right, I won’t keep you any longer! Have a nice day, dearie!”
The door slammed shut. The apartment went silent again, only her sweet perfume slowly dissolving into the air.
You spent the whole day on edge. Your thoughts kept circling the upcoming meeting. Who would it be? A quiet female student? A calm guy who works night shifts? In your mind you imagined scenes of peaceful coexistence: shared bills, polite conversations in the kitchen, clear boundaries. By the end of the workday you had even settled a little. After all, it wasn’t the end of the world. In this part of town it was practically impossible to find anything decent at this price. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
With that thought, you climbed the creaky staircase of the old building, turned the key in the lock, and stepped into the apartment. And froze.
There, in the middle of the kitchen-living room, stood a man — a two-meter-tall giant in grey sweatpants and… your favorite light oversized T-shirt, which on him looked indecently tight, clinging to his broad chest and sculpted shoulders. Tattoos snaked across his powerful arms, scars whitened his skin, and dark eyes with golden sparks looked straight at you as if he had been waiting for you a long time.
And not just waiting — he had already made himself at home.
Under his massive arm sat your large teddy bear — the very one you usually left on the bed. In your room you had several such toys: gifts, keepsakes, silent witnesses of your everyday life, and a few of them had even been granted the honor of guarding your sleep.
The man slowly tilted his head to the side, sizing you up from head to toe. The smirk on his face widened when he caught your gaze lingering on the toy. He squeezed the teddy bear — harder than before — and it gave a pitiful squeak.
At that moment your phone vibrated in your pocket. A message from Mrs. Sparrow:
“I forgot to mention, dearie! Such good luck, a nice young man was found so quickly. I was in a hurry, so we only spoke for a couple of minutes, but I assure you — he’s a decent guy. You’ll need to help him settle in, the poor thing spent 13 years in prison, so try to be welcoming! ❤️”
The further you read the landlady’s message, the stronger the feeling of unreality became. The words simply didn’t make sense in your head: A decent guy… Thirteen years in prison…
You stood in the doorway, unable to make a single sound. Your mouth opened and closed, and your heart was hammering somewhere in your throat.
Finally, the man lazily shifted the teddy bear from one hand to the other, never taking his eyes off you. His voice — low, raspy, filled with obvious mockery — cut through the silence of the apartment:
“— What, rabbit, swallowed your tongue? Isn’t it customary to greet your neighbor when you see one?”
— he clicked his tongue, almost disappointed, as if you had personally offended him.
He stepped forward, and the floorboards creaked under his weight. Golden sparks in his eyes flared brighter in the light of the evening lamp.
“— By the way, there’s nothing decent in your fridge. What, do you survive on air?”
“— My name is Vaughn. And this,”
he said, lightly shaking your teddy bear,
“is apparently our mutual friend now that we’re neighbors.”
His smirk turned completely wolfish, as if it was you who had been moved into his place, not the other way around.