For two years now, you had been living with your best friend Frauke in a small flat on the edge of the city. You were both students and shared the rent, because student life was expensive enough.
Directly across from your flat was another one that had stood empty since you moved in. For two years, no one had been there. No light behind the windows, no sounds, no one next door.
Until that afternoon. You were just coming home from a lecture when you noticed something in the courtyard.
A motorcycle. Not just any one. A deep-black sports bike stood in the lot in front of the building. The machine looked as if it had rolled straight out of an action film—aggressive, elegant, and damn expensive.
You stopped for a moment.
“Where did that come from?”
No one in your building rode a bike. Curious, you went up the stairs and unlocked the door. You had barely gotten through the door when Frauke rushed at you.
“Finally, you're here!”
“Hello to you, too.”
“You won't believe what happened!”
“Oh, I probably will.”
“No!”
She grabbed you by the arm and hauled you into the kitchen.
“Someone moved in across the hall!”
“Oh.”
“A guy!”
“And?”
Frauke stared at you as if you had just confessed that you had never eaten chocolate.
“A hot guy!”
“So you saw him?”
“Only briefly, unfortunately.”
You had to laugh.
“Of course.”
“But the motorcycle belongs to him.”
“The black one downstairs?”
“Yes!”
She dropped dramatically onto a chair.
“And he has muscles.”
“So you did see him more closely after all.”
“Only scientifically.”
“I see.”
From that day on, the new neighbour was conversation topic number one. At least for Frauke. For you, he remained more of a myth.
Three weeks passed. Three weeks in which you didn't see the man once. The only things you noticed from him were his music and his bike.
Almost every evening, you first heard the deep rumble of the engine in the yard. Then it fell silent, and a few seconds later his apartment door clicked shut. Sometimes music played at night. Not incredibly loud. But loud enough that you knew he was home again. And sometimes his apartment seemed to be full of people.
Especially last night. Music had played somewhere across the way until well past midnight, people had laughed, and doors had slammed. You had maybe slept four hours. Accordingly, that's how you felt the next afternoon.
Tired. Annoyed. And completely unable to concentrate.
You were just driving into the yard when you made the mistake. For a single moment, you didn't look properly. A dull noise.
KRRRRRRRT.
Your heart stopped. You immediately hit the brakes. No. No. No. Please not.
Slowly, you got out. And there it was. The bike—his bike. On the right side, a long ugly gouge ran across the panel.
You stared at it.
“Shit.”
The word barely left your mouth audibly. The machine looked like it cost more than your car. And now you had damaged it. Because of your stupidity.
You must have just stood there for five minutes. Maybe the scratch would disappear on its own. Of course it didn't.
So you dragged yourself upstairs. Frauke was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through her phone.
“Why do you look like you just died?”
You dropped down next to her.
“I have a problem.”
“How big?”
“Very big.”
“Financially big or emotionally big?”
“Both.”
She put her phone down.
“Okay, now it's getting interesting.”
You told her everything. About the tiredness. About the moment of carelessness. About the noise. And about the scratch.
Frauke grimaced.
“Oof.”
“Thanks for the support.”
“That was sympathy.”
“That didn't sound like sympathy.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
You buried your face in your hands.
“What should I do now?”
“Tell him.”
You looked at her.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don't even know the guy.”
“Exactly why.”
“Maybe he won't notice.”
Frauke raised an eyebrow.
“On his bike?”
“Okay, stupid argument.”
“Very stupid argument.”
You sighed.
“And what if he freaks out?”
“Then he freaks out.”
“That doesn't help me.”
“But you damaged his motorcycle.”
Unfortunately, she was right. And you both knew it.
Half an hour later, you stood in front of his door. Your heart was beating far too fast. Your hands were clammy. About a hundred disaster scenarios were running through your head at the same time.
Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe he would yell at you. Maybe he would demand a sum you could never afford. Maybe—
The door opened. And all thoughts vanished instantly. In front of you stood a man. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark shirt. Slightly tousled hair. And eyes that studied you with surprise for a moment.
Obviously, he hadn't expected visitors.
“Yes?”
His voice was deep.
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Perfect. Very mature. He waited. One second. Two seconds.
Then one corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Can I help you?”
You forced yourself to speak.
“Um... yes.”
Great. Very convincing.
“I... live across the hall.”
“Okay.”
“And I have a problem.”
“Also okay.”
Why was he so calm? That only made everything worse. You took a deep breath.
“Your motorcycle.”
Immediately, his gaze became more attentive.
“What about it?”
Your stomach tightened.
“I hit it with my car.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
“You did what?”
“I'm sorry.”
Now there was no turning back.
“I was tired and distracted and bumped into it while parking.”
He stared at you. You waited for the outburst. For the yelling. For the catastrophe. But instead, he slowly leaned against the doorframe. And suddenly he began to laugh.
You blinked.
“... why are you laughing?”
“Because you look like you're about to faint.”
“That's not funny.”
“A little bit it is.”
“Your motorcycle has a scratch!”
“And you came here voluntarily to admit it.”
His eyes glinted slightly.
“Hardly anyone does that these days.”
You didn't know whether you should be relieved or confused. Maybe both.
“So... you're not angry?”
He looked at you for a moment. Then he shook his head.
“Let's look at the damage first.”