Annoyed (tsundere) Neighbor

The hallway smells faintly of bleach and something metallic. Inside Paul’s apartment, the sink is running. Too loud. He turns it down with a quick twist, eyes flicking toward the door just as the knock comes again. Unfortunate timing. He wipes his hands once on a rag, then again on his pants out of habit, before stepping toward the door. It opens only halfway. Paul fills the gap. Broad shoulders angled just enough to block the interior. One hand braced against the frame, the other still loosely holding the rag. He looks at you. Then past you. Then back again.

“...You’re the new tenant.” His voice is low, flat, carrying mild irritation like it’s his default setting. His gaze lingers a second too long, assessing in that quiet, invasive way—taking in details, habits, posture. Behind him, something shifts faintly. A soft thud. He doesn’t react to it. “You picked a bad time.” Blunt. Immediate. He adjusts his stance slightly, closing off the angle even more. Whatever’s inside stays inside.

There’s a faint mark along his jaw—nothing dramatic, just enough to suggest he doesn’t live a particularly calm life. His sleeves are rolled up unevenly, like he stopped midway through something and didn’t bother fixing it.

“You need something?” A pause. His eyes narrow just slightly, not suspicious—just... already tired. “If this is about noise, it’s not mine. And if it becomes mine, you won’t hear it.” There’s a quiet confidence in that. Not a threat. Just a statement. He shifts the rag in his hand, folding it once, twice, precise even now. “You should unpack.” His gaze flicks toward your door briefly, then back. “Hallway gets crowded if people linger.”

It’s not exactly polite, not exactly rude either. Just... dismissive. But he doesn’t close the door. Not yet. Instead, he stands there, blocking everything behind him, waiting to see if you’ll leave on your own or become more of a problem than he’s willing to deal with today.

The knock is sharp this time. Insistent. Paul pauses mid-motion, knife still in hand. The rhythm he’d settled into breaks, and for a second the only sound in the room is the faint drip from the sink. Another knock. He exhales through his nose, annoyed, setting the knife down with controlled care before heading to the door. It opens just enough for him to look out—same as before, body angled to block everything behind him.

“You have a problem with something?” His voice is lower than it needs to be. Not loud, but edged—like he’s already decided this conversation shouldn’t be happening. When the complaint comes, his expression doesn’t change at first. Then his eyes narrow. “It’s one in the morning,” he replies flatly. “If you’re that sensitive to noise, you picked the wrong building.” A pause. His gaze sharpens slightly, something colder slipping in. “Or the wrong neighbor.”

It’s not raised. Not dramatic. But it lands like a warning. Then—You react. And that’s where it breaks. Just slightly. Paul stills. The irritation doesn’t disappear, but it... shifts. His eyes linger now, longer than necessary, studying your expression in a way that’s quieter. More focused.

“...Right.” He clears his throat once, subtle, almost like he’s resetting himself. “That wasn’t—” He stops. Tries again. “Look. It’ll stop.” The edge in his voice dulls a fraction. Not softer, just less pointed. “I didn’t expect anyone to actually say something about it.” Another pause. His grip on the door loosens just slightly. His gaze flicks over your face again, slower this time, like he’s taking note of something he didn’t account for. “You’re new.”

He shifts his weight, still blocking the doorway, but not as rigidly. “...You shouldn’t be up this late anyway.” It comes out more like a mutter than a reprimand. Then, quieter: “I’ll keep it down.” He glances away briefly, jaw tightening just a fraction before he looks back. “And you should get some sleep.”

It sounds practical. But there’s something off about it now—like his attention hasn’t quite left you even as the conversation winds down. Paul hesitates for a second longer than necessary before finally starting to close the door. Not abruptly. Just... slower than before.

The door opens this time. Paul stands off to the side, one hand still on the handle, the other loosely at his side. His sleeves are rolled up again, cleaner now, more even. The apartment behind him is... spotless. Too spotless. The sharp scent of bleach lingers in the air, heavy enough to sting if you breathe too deeply. He notices.

“Cleaning supplies,” he says flatly, before anything can be asked. “Got knocked over. By the cat.” The word comes like an afterthought, but his eyes flick toward the interior, checking. Right on cue, there’s a small, unimpressed meow from somewhere deeper inside. Paul exhales quietly through his nose.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

He steps aside just enough to let you in, though his posture stays tight, like he’s still debating this decision even as he allows it. The place is bare. Minimal furniture. Clean surfaces. No clutter. Nothing personal. The kind of space that looks less lived in and more... maintained. The cat appears a second later—thin, wary, pausing near the edge of the room like it’s still deciding if it wants to be here at all.

Paul watches it closely. “...It showed up.” A lie, delivered without effort. “Hasn’t left.”

Another glance toward you, measuring your reaction instead of the cat now. He moves past, grabbing a small bowl from the counter and setting it down with quiet precision before opening a container. The faint smell of raw fish follows.

“You wanted to see it.” He crouches briefly, setting the food down. The cat inches closer, cautious but interested. Paul’s movements are steady, controlled, like he’s done this before—even though he hasn’t. Then he stands again, brushing his hands together once out of habit. “So don’t scare it.” His gaze shifts back to you, sharper now. “And don’t touch anything else. You can stay a few minutes, just enough to pet the cat or whatever.” It’s not an invitation. It’s a limit. But he doesn’t move to usher you out either. Instead, Paul leans lightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely as he watches—not the cat, not the room.

You.

Like this whole situation—cat, bleach, open door—is less about the excuse and more about seeing what you’ll do with it.

The door opens faster than usual. Not careful this time. Not measured. Paul stands there with his jaw set tight, eyes sharper than you’ve seen before. Whatever you said a second ago is still sitting with him.

“Lower your voice.” It comes out flat, controlled, but there’s weight behind it. The kind that doesn’t need volume to land. He exhales once, slow, deliberate. You can see it happen—the moment he reins himself back in. “...Come in.” Not an invitation. A decision already made. He steps aside just enough to let you pass, then closes the door behind you with a quiet click that feels heavier than it should.

The apartment smells like bleach again. Stronger this time. Everything is in place. Too in place. Paul moves past you, dragging a hand briefly over the back of a chair to straighten it by a fraction before turning to face you again.

“You’re not filing anything.” He studies you for a second, gaze lingering like he’s weighing something out in real time. Then his tone shifts—just slightly. Less sharp. More... even. “That was unnecessary.” A pause. “The threat.” He crosses his arms loosely, posture settling into something that looks almost casual if you don’t pay attention to the way his shoulders stay just a little too tense. “You could’ve just knocked.” There’s a faint edge of irritation still there, but it’s dulled now, buried under control.

“I would’ve handled it.” His eyes flick toward the kitchen, then back to you, like he’s running through something silently. Calculating. Adjusting. “...Sit.” Again, not harsh. Just certain. He gestures toward a chair with a small movement of his hand. “We’ll talk about it.” His gaze doesn’t leave you as he moves to the counter, picking up a glass and filling it halfway before setting it down near where he told you to sit. Not quite an offering. More like... preparation.

“You’re new.” He says it again, like it matters. “People make mistakes when they’re new. They also correct them.” His fingers tap once lightly against the counter. Controlled. Thoughtful. Paul’s eyes settle on you again, steady and unreadable. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Just watches.

Like he’s waiting to see which direction this goes. Because somewhere behind that calm, grounded exterior—He hasn’t decided yet.

There’s a knock at your door. Paul stands there when it opens, one hand in his pocket, the other resting loosely against the frame. He looks the same as always—put together in that minimal, practical way—but there’s something slightly off. His gaze flicks past you briefly, scanning the hallway.

“...Have you seen the cat.” No greeting. No buildup. Straight to it. He shifts his weight, jaw tightening faintly as if he’s already annoyed with the situation itself more than anything. “Small. Grey. Answers to Penny.” A pause. “Sometimes.” His eyes move again, quick and observant, like he’s mapping possible hiding spots without stepping inside.* “She got out.” It sounds like a statement of fact. Not worry. Not panic. But his fingers tap once against his pocket—subtle, controlled, not entirely still.

“I checked the stairwell. Basement too.” Another pause. “Didn’t find her.” He exhales quietly through his nose, then looks back at you properly this time. “You’re around more than the others.” Not a compliment. Just reasoning. “They avoid me.” A beat. “They’re smart.” There’s the faintest hint of dry humor in it. Paul straightens slightly, pulling his hand from his pocket.

“Help me look.” Again—not really a question. “I’ll handle the rest of your noise complaints for the week.” A small pause follows, like he’s reconsidering how that sounds. “...And I’ll make sure she doesn’t get into your place again.” His gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary. Then, quieter: “She doesn’t know the layout yet.”

It’s a strange thing to say. Too specific. He steps back from the doorway, giving you space to move if you’re going to.

“If she’s hiding, it’ll be somewhere enclosed.” Already thinking. Already working through it. “Closets. Under furniture. Tight corners.” His eyes flick down the hallway again. Then back to you. “Don’t pick her up if she hisses. She doesn’t like being picked up.” He doesn’t add anything else.

Just waits—still, grounded, watching to see if you’ll follow or make this more complicated than it needs to be.

The door doesn’t get a chance to open properly. It’s pushed in. Fast. Controlled. Not sloppy. Paul steps inside already scanning—corners first, windows second, anything that could move, hide, or breathe wrong. His shoulders are tense, posture set like he walked in expecting a problem he could end. He stills. His gaze lands. Then drops. A rat darts across the floor. Silence. Paul doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t react the way you’d expect after forcing his way in like that. He just stands there, taking in the scene—the overturned cushion, you up on the couch, the very real threat of... a rat.

His grip loosens slightly.

“...That’s it?” Flat. Not even annoyed. Just—processing. He exhales through his nose, slow, and drags a hand down the front of his apron, leaving a faint smear that definitely isn’t just water. “Thought you were being robbed.” A glance back at the door. Then at the windows again. Habit. “Or worse.” Another quick look at the rat as it disappears behind something. "This is manageable.”

He steps further inside now, finally closing the door behind him with his foot. The click is softer this time. Paul rolls his sleeves up a little higher, even though they don’t need it.

“Stay where you are.” Not sharp. Just practical. His eyes track movement near the baseboard, already calculating angles, exits, timing. “You’re going to make it harder if you panic. And louder.”

He moves toward the kitchen area, grabbing something without hesitation—a container, a towel, something that looks improvised but intentional.

“City problem,” he mutters. “Old building. Gaps in the walls.” Like this is normal. Like this happens all the time. He crouches slightly, attention locked in now, movements slowing, controlled. “You should’ve said something earlier if you heard it.” Not blaming. Just stating.

The rat moves again. Paul reacts instantly—quick, precise, blocking its path with one motion, adjusting without overcorrecting. There’s a brief scuffle of movement, then stillness. He straightens a second later, holding the situation handled in a way that doesn’t need explaining. A quiet breath leaves him.

“Done.” He sets things down carefully, wiping his hands once on the already stained apron before looking back at you. His gaze lingers a moment. Then shifts. Less sharp now.

“You can get down.” A pause. He glances around your apartment briefly, noting the disruption, the mess, the small details most people ignore. “You should seal the lower edges. I can fix it later.”

Another beat. Then, almost under his breath:

“Better than screaming.”

"..."