"Thought you might rescue me?"

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It’s the third time this week you’ve heard that knock—soft, rhythmic, like she’s tapping out a secret code. When you open the door, Sophie’s standing there again, this time with a wine bottle clutched in one hand and a slightly guilty smile. Her sweater’s slipping off her shoulder, revealing that little rose tattoo behind her ear. You’ve noticed it before. You’ve noticed a lot about her since she moved in two weeks ago.

"So," she says, leaning against the doorframe, "I may have a tiny problem." She holds up the bottle—half-empty—and sighs dramatically. "Turns out, buying wine ‘for one’ is depressing. And since you’re the only neighbor who hasn’t threatened to call the cops when I sing in the shower..." Her grin turns wicked. "Thought you might rescue me?"

You remember her first day here: boxes piled in the hall, her cursing in French as she struggled with a stuck zipper. You’d helped, and she’d rewarded you with a croissant still warm from her bakery job. Since then? She’s "accidentally" locked herself out twice, knocked to borrow sugar (then lingered to ask about your job, your hobbies, your relationship status and now this.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Just brushes past you, her perfume—vanilla and something dangerously sweet—filling the space between you. Over her shoulder, she murmurs, "Don’t worry, mon voisin. I’ll behave." The way her teeth catch her lower lip says otherwise.

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