By the time Naya stepped off the evening bus and began the short walk to her apartment complex, the sun had already slipped low, bleeding the sky in shades of amber and violet. The air was warm but cooling, the kind of in-between temperature that made the evening feel almost comforting, if you didn't have a day like hers gnawing at the edges of your mind.
She crossed the narrow sidewalk toward the familiar lot, her tote bag heavy with the few groceries she'd picked up on her way home. Her heels clicked softly on the pavement. She could see the faint glow of lights in a handful of apartment windows above — little rectangles of other people's evenings unfolding.
She rounded the corner into the parking lot and slowed. A black sedan eased into an empty spot near the entrance, its headlights washing briefly over the row of cars before cutting out.
The driver's door opened.
Her breath caught, more from surprise than anything else.
Adrian Hale stepped out.
Not the sharply-suited, untouchable man from the conference room that morning. Tonight, he wore a dark charcoal shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows and the top button undone, paired with tailored trousers that somehow still looked like they belonged in a fashion spread. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it on the drive over.
For a heartbeat, she thought about walking faster, slipping past before he noticed her. But he turned just as she took another step, his eyes finding her across the dimming lot.
They lingered there for a second. Maybe two. Long enough for the quiet between them to settle like a thin, invisible thread.
"Evening," he called, his voice carrying easily in the still air.
Naya adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder. "Evening, Mr. Hale."
He shut his car door and began walking toward her, not hurried but not slow either. There was something deliberate in the way he moved, unhurried confidence.
"Adrian," he corrected, stopping a few steps away. The faintest curl tugged at the corner of his mouth. "We're not in the office now. And… we're neighbors, apparently."
Her brow furrowed. "Neighbors?"
He gave a small nod, glancing toward the building entrance. "Moved in yesterday. Top floor."
"That's… quite a coincidence," she said, trying to sound casual even though her mind had already started spinning.
"Coincidences happen," he replied, though his eyes lingered on her in a way that felt like he was weighing the odds himself.
A soft breeze stirred, brushing a strand of hair against her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, trying to ignore the awareness prickling at the back of her neck.
"Long day?" he asked, glancing briefly at her bag.
"You could say that," she answered. "Meetings, deadlines… the usual."
"Hmm." His gaze flicked back to her face. "I heard Celeste Winters will be working with you on Merigold."
Naya blinked, a little caught off guard. "You hear a lot for someone who just moved in."
He smiled faintly. "I have a way of keeping informed. Comes with the territory."
She wasn't sure what "territory" meant exactly, but she didn't ask. She had a feeling he'd only give her part of the answer.
A short silence settled between them, broken only by the distant hum of traffic from the main road.
"You don't drive to work?" he asked, gesturing toward the empty spot in front of the building.
"Not when I can help it," she said. "The bus is easier — no parking headaches."
"Practical."
"I try to be."
For some reason, the conversation felt… balanced. Not the stiff politeness of the office, but something more grounded. Still, she was aware of the way his eyes didn't drift much from hers, and it made her pulse tick faster.
She gestured toward the building entrance. "I should probably head in. My groceries won't put themselves away."
"Of course." He fell into step beside her without asking, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
The motion-sensor light over the entrance flicked on as they approached, washing them in a soft glow. Inside, the lobby was quiet except for the faint hum of the vending machine against one wall. They crossed to the elevator, and Adrian pressed the button.
The mirrored doors slid open, and they stepped in.
"Which floor?" he asked, though his hand hovered near the top buttons.
"Seven."
His hand moved, and her eyes followed the motion — he pressed 7… and then 8.
"You're right above me," she said without thinking.
He glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I guess I am."
The ride up was short, but it felt longer than it should have. The elevator was small, the air faintly scented with clean linen from whatever the building used for maintenance. She could feel his presence beside her, not intrusive but undeniably there.
The doors slid open on seven, and she stepped out. He followed.
"Thought you said eight?" she asked, turning toward him.
"I did." He nodded toward the far end of the corridor. "But I'll walk you to your door. Seems polite."
She considered pointing out that it wasn't necessary, but something in his tone made her leave it alone.
The hallway was quiet, only the soft hum of overhead lights accompanying their footsteps. Naya stopped in front of her door, fishing for her keys.
Adrian glanced at the apartment opposite hers, the door directly facing hers.
He smiled, slow and almost amused. "That's mine."
Her hand froze on the key. "…You're joking."
"Not this time."
For a moment, she could only stare at him. She'd been living here for nearly three years, and now Adrian Hale, the man who'd already disrupted her morning was going to be right across the hall.
"Small world," he said again, though this time his voice carried a note she couldn't quite read.
"Too small," she muttered before she could stop herself.
He chuckled low, clearly hearing her. "We'll see."
With that, he stepped back toward his own door, unlocking it with a smooth twist of his wrist.
"Goodnight, Naya."
She swallowed. "Goodnight… Adrian."
She slipped inside her apartment, shutting the door with a quiet click. For a long moment, she leaned against it, groceries forgotten on the counter.
She had the distinct feeling her life had just gotten more complicated.