When Carlos first moves into the apartment across the hall, he thinks he’s won.

It’s bright, modern, has massive windows with golden-hour lighting, and there’s a bakery around the corner that sells coffee strong enough to revive the dead. The gym is two blocks away, the walls are thick enough to play music without complaints, and—best of all—there’s a gorgeous little orange cat that occasionally prowls the hallway like he owns the place.

Then there’s the cat’s owner.

Apartment 8B.

Tall. Blonde. Always dressed in black or grey like he’s starring in a crime noir. Moves like a panther and glares like a man who’s perpetually being inconvenienced by the existence of other people.

Carlos watches him carry three bags of groceries in one hand and unlock his door with the other without breaking a sweat.