She didn’t know who lived next door. She hadn’t seen them. But she had heard them. Oh, she’d heard.

The walls weren’t paper-thin, exactly. But if you closed your eyes and focused, you could definitely hear the muffled sounds of... well. Let’s just say her neighbor was enthusiastic. And consistent. Almost every night, like clockwork, came the low, rhythmic thud of a headboard meeting drywall, followed by noises that sounded straight out of a very NSFW Spotify playlist.

Naturally, she assumed: young guy. Probably hot. Probably a gym bro with abs and a rotation of girls who called him “daddy” without irony. A walking TikTok thirst trap.

She even gave him a name. In her mind, he was “The F***boy.”

Until she met him.