Love At First Fight: My Next Door Neighbour

Skye's POV

Silence. Beautiful, perfect silence.

I stood in the middle of my new apartment, breathing in the quiet like it was expensive perfume. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the bay windows, casting long shadows across my stacks of unpacked boxes.

Each one was neatly labeled in my precise handwriting: "Kitchen - Mugs," "Office - Reference Books," "Bedroom - Winter Sweaters."

My sister Sarah's voice echoed in my head: "Are you sure about this, Sky? Moving to Brooklyn... living alone?" The worry in her voice was as familiar as my morning coffee. But for once, I knew I'd made the right decision.

This apartment in Park Slope was everything I'd dreamed of - hardwood floors, crown molding, and most importantly, blessed quiet for writing.

I pulled my reading glasses from their chain around my neck and consulted my moving-day checklist. The movers had positioned my desk exactly where I'd specified, facing the window but not too close to cause screen glare.

My ergonomic chair waited patiently for tomorrow's writing session. Even my lucky coffee mug - the one that had seen me through three bestselling mystery novels - had made the journey without a chip.

"Perfect," I whispered, tucking a strand of dark hair behind my ear that had escaped my messy bun. "Absolutely perfect."

The sound of a key in a lock made me freeze. My heart kicked up its familiar panicked rhythm before I forced myself to breathe.

It's just a neighbor, Skye. Normal people have neighbors.

Voices filtered through the wall - deep, male laughter and the clinking of... were those pots and pans?

"I'm telling you, Marcus, this kitchen is perfect for the Thursday night special!" The voice was rich and warm, with just a hint of a Spanish accent. "We could easily fit twenty people in here."

Twenty people? My peaceful writer's retreat suddenly felt a lot less peaceful.

I pressed my ear against the wall, my mystery writer's curiosity getting the better of me. The voice continued, "Mrs. Garcia already gave me the green light. Said she loves the idea of bringing some life to the building."

Mrs. Garcia? The building supervisor who'd shown me the apartment had specifically promised me this was a quiet building, perfect for professionals who worked from home. She'd even mentioned the thick walls as a selling point.

More clattering sounds, followed by what could only be described as the entire contents of a kitchen supply store being unpacked. "Pass me that box of whisks, man. And careful with the knife roll - those are my babies."

I glanced at my phone. 4:37 PM. Surely they wouldn't be making this much noise all night. I had a deadline looming for my next book, and my editor was already sending me passive-aggressive emails about the delay.

"Chef, these acoustics are amazing!" A different voice now, probably this Marcus person. "The sound really carries."

Oh no. No, no, no.

The first voice laughed again - a deep, infectious sound that would have been charming if it wasn't spelling the death of my writing sanctuary. "Perfect for music while we cook! Hey, let's test it out-"

The opening beats of what seemed to be salsa music burst through my wall, making me jump so hard I knocked over a box labeled "Living Room - Books (Mystery Reference)."

Before I could stop myself, I was out my door and pounding on apartment 4B. The music was even louder in the hallway, and my heart was racing with memories I didn't want to revisit. Keep it together, Skye.

The door swung open, and I found myself staring at a broad chest covered in a black t-shirt that read "Time to Get Whisky."

My eyes traveled up to find possibly the most annoyingly handsome face I'd ever seen - warm brown eyes, a strong jaw darkened by five o'clock shadow, and black hair that looked artfully messy rather than my own practical kind.

"Well, hello neighbor!" His smile was bright enough to power Brooklyn. "I'm Zane Rodriguez, just moving in. Sorry about the noise - we're just testing out the kitchen's potential."

Behind him, I caught glimpses of what looked like a professional kitchen being assembled. A tall Black man with neat dreadlocks and designer glasses - Marcus, I assumed - was unpacking boxes marked "FRAGILE - KITCHEN EQUIPMENT."

I straightened to my full height, which still left me looking up at him. "I'm Skye Mitchell from 4A, and I work from home. As a writer. Who needs quiet."

His eyes lit up with interest. "A writer? What do you write?"

"Murder mysteries," I said flatly, hoping he'd catch my tone. "Very detailed ones. About people who disturb their neighbors."

Instead of being intimidated, he threw his head back and laughed. The sound rippled through me like warm honey, which was extremely annoying. "I like you already, Skye Mitchell. Hey, you should join us for dinner sometime. I make a mean paella that could inspire your next book."

"I'm not interested in dinner. I'm interested in quiet." I gestured at his stereo. "Could you please turn that down?"

"Of course, of course." He turned to adjust the volume, giving me a view of his broad shoulders. "Better?"

The music was now at a more reasonable level, but I could still feel the bass through the floor. "It'll do. For now."

As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me. "You know, most mystery writers I know love to people-watch. Gather material for their stories. My kitchen's going to be full of interesting characters."

I looked back at him, taking in his confident stance and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. "Mr. Rodriguez-"

"Zane."

"Mr. Rodriguez, I chose this building specifically because it was advertised as quiet and professional. If that's not going to be the case, we're going to have problems."

His smile dimmed slightly. "Life's too quiet sometimes, Ms. Mitchell. A little noise, a little chaos - it's good for the soul."

"Not for mine," I muttered, turning away. As I retreated to my apartment, I heard Marcus say something that made Zane laugh again.

Back inside my sanctuary, I slumped against the door. My hands were shaking slightly - they always did when I had to confront people. I pulled out my phone and opened my real estate app. Maybe it wasn't too late to find another apartment.

A new song started next door, the bass slightly louder than before. Through the wall, I heard Zane singing along, his voice rich and deep.

I took a deep breath and added "Noise Canceling Headphones" to my shopping list, right under "File Complaint with Mrs. Garcia."

One thing was certain - this was not the peaceful fresh start I'd planned. And Zane Rodriguez was going to be a problem.

A very handsome, very noisy problem.