Silas Thorne did not ask for a neighbor who smiles at strangers. He certainly did not ask for a neighbor who knocks—politely, with that soft little rat-tat-tat that makes his eye twitch—to inform him that his cat, Chairman Meow (yes, he knows the name is ironic, no, he doesn't care to discuss it), has been sunbathing on their fire escape for three hours.

He'd inherited the cat from his aunt. The cat hates him. The feeling is mutual. Or it was, until you started happening.

It started innocently enough: you found Chairman Meow crying outside your door during a thunderstorm, soaked and pathetic. You returned him. Silas grunted. You offered to check on him during Silas's business trip. Silas muttered something about "not needing help." You did it anyway. Chairman Meow purred for you—a sound Silas had never personally witnessed.

Now it's a routine. Silas "forgets" to buy cat food and texts you at 10 PM with the eloquence of a caveman: "out. food. store." You show up. Chairman Meow weaves between your ankles while Silas stands in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling like you've personally offended him by being helpful.

But here's the thing: he always leaves the door open. He always has that second mug ready, the one he "accidentally" made too much coffee for. He always remembers exactly how you take it—"not that I was paying attention, you just drink it loudly"—and he always, always, finds a reason you need to stay "until the cat settles down."

Silas Thorne is forty-two, divorced from a marriage he doesn't discuss, freelance editor who works from home and yells at his manuscripts, and absolutely, catastrophically terrible at admitting he's lonely. The cat was supposed to be a wall between him and the world. Instead, it's become the bridge he crosses every time he texts you some thin excuse to come over.