The walls of your apartment are paper-thin. You figured that out within the first few days of moving in, but after three weeks, you've become painfully familiar with just how little privacy this building actually provides. Every footstep in the hallway carries through the plaster, every cupboard door seems twice as loud at night, and apparently, so does absolutely everything happening in the apartment next door. Most nights, you've managed to grit your teeth and ignore it, reminding yourself that it's an old building, that people are allowed to live their lives, and that eventually the noise will stop. Tonight, however, the man next door has apparently decided that everyone within a fifty-foot radius deserves to know exactly what he's getting up to.

It's two in the morning, and instead of the quiet you're desperate for, the wall beside your bed is being subjected to a steady, obnoxious rhythm of thumping and creaking. The headboard keeps knocking against the wall, a woman's laughter carries through the plaster, and beneath it all is the unmistakably deep, rough sound of a man's voice. He isn't exactly trying to be quiet, either. If anything, the complete lack of embarrassment makes it worse, as though the bastard on the other side of the wall genuinely couldn't care less whether anyone else in the building is awake.

You try to ignore him anyway. You bury your face into your pillow, turn onto your other side, drag the covers over your head and attempt to convince yourself that eventually it'll stop. Instead, another particularly loud thud rattles the wall beside your bed, followed by another burst of laughter from the woman next door, and whatever patience you had left finally snaps. You throw the covers aside and climb out of bed, still wearing nothing more than your ratty pyjama shorts and oversized T-shirt, your hair completely dishevelled from sleep and your face warm from being buried into your pillow. You don't even bother looking presentable; you're far too annoyed for that.

You storm out into the hallway at two in the morning, shutting your apartment door behind you before marching toward his. The building is almost eerily quiet compared to the noise that had been coming through your bedroom wall, the dim yellow hallway lights casting long shadows across the worn carpet while the muffled sounds from his apartment become clearer the closer you get. You stop directly outside his door, stare at it for a moment, and then raise your fist, knocking hard enough to make the sound echo down the corridor.

The noise inside stops.

There is a brief, almost suspicious silence.

Then footsteps approach.

The door swings open, and the man standing on the other side is considerably more imposing than you expected.

Sheriff Billy is somewhere in his late forties, though the years haven't done much to diminish the sheer physical presence of him. He's tall — easily six-foot-three — with broad shoulders, a thick chest, solid arms and the kind of rugged build that comes from years of physical work rather than spending hours admiring himself in a gym mirror. He's shirtless, his chest and stomach covered in dark hair, his skin still carrying the warmth of his apartment. His salt-and-pepper hair is slightly mussed, his thick moustache somehow still perfectly groomed, and a pair of handcuffs hangs loosely from one wrist as though he'd been interrupted while getting ready for the night.

His brown eyes land on you.

And stop.

For a second, Billy genuinely looks as though he's trying to figure out who the hell you are.

There isn't even a flicker of recognition.

Then his eyes travel over you slowly, taking in your messy hair, oversized T-shirt, rumpled pyjama shorts and flushed face before returning to your eyes. Something shifts in his expression. His eyebrows rise slightly, and then the corner of his mouth pulls upward into the beginnings of a grin.

Huh.

Three weeks.

You have apparently been living directly beside this man for three entire weeks, and somehow he hadn't noticed.

Behind him, the bedroom door remains open, warm light spilling across the floor, and the woman from earlier is still sitting comfortably beneath the sheets, watching the entire situation with an amused expression. Billy glances back at her for half a second before looking at you again, and that grin only seems to grow.

He doesn't apologise.

He doesn't even look particularly embarrassed.

Instead, Billy leans one shoulder against the doorframe and folds his arms across his chest, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who has just been caught being the reason his neighbour is standing outside his apartment at two in the morning. The handcuffs hanging from his wrist swing lazily with the movement, the metal giving a quiet little click against his skin.

And then you start.

You let him have it.

The complaints you've been storing up for three weeks finally come pouring out — the noise, the walls, the ridiculous hour, the fact that you've had to listen to him night after night without apparently having the slightest consideration for anyone on the other side of the wall. Billy doesn't interrupt you once.

Not once.

He just watches.

At first, there's a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, but the longer you go, the more obvious it becomes that he's actually enjoying this. His eyes remain fixed on you, occasionally dropping over your dishevelled appearance before returning to your face, and every now and then his tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek as he fights back another laugh.

Eventually, Billy looks away.

He shakes his head once, almost disbelievingly, and a quiet laugh escapes beneath his breath. His jaw shifts as his tongue briefly prods the inside of his cheek again, and when he looks back at you, that cocky grin is fully there now.

He looks like a man who has just discovered something extremely entertaining.

"Three weeks, huh?"

His voice is low and rough, carrying that lazy Southern drawl, and there's not even the slightest hint of an apology in it. His eyebrows lift as he looks you over again, as though the realization is only now properly sinking in.

"Didn't even know I had a neighbour."

He lets that sit there for a second.

Then his eyes flick toward the bedroom behind him.

The woman is still there.

Billy glances back at you, and his grin becomes downright shameless. He pushes his tongue briefly against his cheek again, looking you up and down before giving a small, amused huff through his nose. His hand closes around the handcuffs, and he begins casually twirling them around one finger, the metal making a soft clicking sound each time they swing.

"Well…" His head tilts slightly. "Hell."

There is genuine amusement in his expression now, along with the unmistakable look of a man wondering how on earth he managed to miss the woman living directly beside him for an entire month.

Then Billy gestures loosely toward the bedroom with his chin. His grin widens, that lazy Southern drawl dragging out every word.

"So... are ya gonna shut up or go back to bed?" His voice is rough, low, amused. "'Cause this ain't stoppin' anytime soon, sugar."

He holds your gaze for a beat, letting the words sink in. Then he points — slow and deliberate — right at your mouth.

"Or... do you wanna come on in and put that mouth to better use?"

His grin turns downright shameless as his hand drops back to his side.

"Since ya love complainin' so much."

.