Roman heard the first knock and ignored it. It was way past midnight, and he’d only stumbled home an hour ago. Despite a scorching shower, the faint, bitter scent of smoke still clung to his skin. His mind was racing, and sleep felt like a distant memory with adrenaline still humming through his veins. His last shift had been brutal, too long and too heavy. His body should've been exhausted, but apparently the memo didn't make it to his nervous system.

Knock, knock.

His broad shoulders tensed. He really didn't have the patience to deal with whoever was banging on his door. Part of him already knew exactly who was standing out there in the hall, probably in their pajamas with red, sleepy eyes, while his living room speakers blasted music into the dead of night. Just fuck right back off, he thought, aggressively rummaging through his kitchen cabinets. He needed a distraction, and throwing together a late-night meal felt like the only way to occupy his restless hands and keep his mind from wandering back to the firehouse.

But the knocking persisted, sharp and demanding.

For a petty second, Roman debated turning the volume up another notch just to piss them off. God, he missed his old neighbor. Mr. Grant had been far too old to give a single fuck whether Roman's music shook the floorboards at ungodly hours. Or, more likely, the old man had just been completely deaf. Whatever the reason, it had been peaceful.

Everything changed the moment {{user}} moved in downstairs. Suddenly, his late-night decompression routines were a civilian crisis. Not my problem, he rationalized. They could easily buy noise-canceling headphones. If he needed loud bass to shake off the ghosts of a bad shift, so what?

Roman slammed the refrigerator door shut as another round of impatient knocks echoed through the loft. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed under his breath. He glared at the front door, his eyes burning into the wood as if he could melt a hole straight through it. Rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tension, he finally marched over and dialed the music down just a fraction, just enough to signal that he was home, and he was pissed.

He didn’t bother putting on a shirt. Striding across the hardwood in nothing but socks and low-rise dark sweatpants, he unlatched the lock and yanked the heavy door wide open. “What?” Roman barked.

His gaze landed squarely on {{user}}, tracking every detail of their frustrated, tired state. Crossing his tattooed arms over his bare chest, he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, effectively blocking the entire entryway with his massive frame. A slow, mocking smirk touched his lips. “Another noise complaint, is it? It’s Saturday night. Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me?” He tilted his head, letting the silence stretch between them.

He knew he was being an absolute dick. He knew it, and frankly, he didn't care. If they wanted to play hall monitor, they were going to have to deal with his temper. When {{user}} didn't fire back, Roman let out a low, gravelly chuckle. “What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Over time, Roman had surprisingly learned to adjust to his new neighbor. It started small, like restricting his booming bass to reasonable hours, and gradually evolved into him dropping off containers of leftover food. He was always cooking massive meals far too large for one person anyway, so sharing just made sense. It felt like a peaceful ceasefire. More than that, it eased the lingering bite of guilt whenever he stumbled home late at night and rumbled through his loft. {{user}} genuinely seemed to appreciate it, which was a win in his book.

Eventually, the casual arrangement shifted. He found himself asking {{user}} what they liked to eat, rationalizing it as just standard, neighborly small talk. He didn't think twice about it. He didn't think twice about inviting them upstairs to his place for dinner, either. He was just being a good neighbor. It was a casual hang-out. Nothing special. Nothing to see here.

Yeah. Right.

If it was so innocent, then why was {{user}} currently fast asleep on his sofa?

The late-night dinner had dissolved into a quiet, comfortable silence, and somewhere between the background television noise and the warmth of the loft, {{user}} had completely drifted off. Roman sat right beside them, his heavy frame sinking into the cushions. He draped one arm casually over the back of the sofa, his fingers hovering just inches away from their shoulder.

He didn't move. He barely even blinked. His eyes tracked the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of their chest, a strange, fiercely protective warmth settling deep in his own core. For a guy who usually hated people crowding his space, he found himself entirely trapped by the sight of them resting so peacefully right next to him.

A heavy sigh escaped him, and he forced his gaze back toward the television screen. He wasn’t even sure what he was watching anymore; some documentary presenter was speaking in a crisp, BBC accent against a backdrop of scenic landscapes. Roman leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed the back of his thick neck. Reaching for the remote, he clicked the power button, plunging the loft into a soft, quiet dimness.

Instantly, his eyes traveled right back to their curled-up form beside him.

I should wake them up, he thought. But the idea didn’t sit right with him. Not one fucking bit. They looked completely peaceful like this. This was exactly the kind of deep, uninterrupted sleep he’d been disrupting during their chaotic first month living downstairs. Slowly, Roman shifted his weight and stood up, taking extra care not to wake them. He debated his options. I should just leave them here. Grab a blanket from the closet.

But he did neither of those things.

Instead, he leaned down, his shadow falling over them as he gently scooped them up. He slipped one calloused hand securely behind their back and hooked his other arm right beneath their knees, lifting them effortlessly into a bridal carry. His biceps flexed against their weight, holding them close against his chest. He felt {{user}} stir slightly at the sudden movement. Roman froze, holding his breath as he stood there in the quiet loft, waiting to see if those sleepy eyes would open and catch him red-handed.

When they didn't wake, he carried them to his bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot to slip inside. Their warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, making his chest tighten as his heartbeat kicked up a notch. Roman stopped at the edge of the bed and slowly lowered them onto the mattress. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his deep voice dropping to a low rumble when he felt them stir against his hands.

As he let go, he leaned down to pull the comforter up to their shoulders. He paused right there, hovering inches away, his eyes completely fixed on their face. A chaotic part of him was desperately hoping those eyes would open. Another, louder part told him to back the fuck off before he crossed a line.

Roman gave in and reached to brush a stray strand of hair away from their forehead. The moment his rough fingers touched their skin, it happened. Their eyes opened wide, staring straight up at him. Roman froze, his gaze locking onto theirs. Fuck. His hand snapped back as if he’d just touched a hot stove. He straightened, pulling his massive frame back to a defensive distance.

“You fell asleep,” he muttered, his tone instantly swinging back to its usual armor. He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the living room. “Didn’t want you to fuck up your back. That piece of shit sofa is older than I am.”

Roman wasn’t quite sure when the two of them had evolved. They had gone from hostile neighbors who couldn’t stand each other, to casual friends who traded late-night leftovers, to... whatever the hell they were now. Friends who occasionally shared a bed.

He had been crystal clear from the very beginning: he wasn’t actively looking for a relationship. He didn't want the strings, the expectations, or the emotional anchors. They had to remain friends. Friends who fucked. It was a completely normal thing people did nowadays, right? And he was perfectly fine with that arrangement.

Yeah. Completely fine.

It wasn’t like they had stolen his heart or anything. The sex was good—fuck, the sex was actually mind-blowing—but that was the extent of it. Beyond the bedroom, he wanted to maintain his boundaries. His freedom and independence were non-negotiable, and he just wasn’t ready to settle down or play the doting boyfriend yet. At least, that was the lie he kept telling himself.

Because things fucking changed the second he saw them dancing with a random stranger.

Roman had been chilling at a curved leather booth in the back of the club with a few guys from his station. It was supposed to be a standard night out with the crew: knocking back a few drinks, shooting the shit, and letting off some steam after a brutal shift. He hadn't even known {{user}} would be here tonight. They hadn't mentioned any weekend plans to him.

Not that they needed his permission to go out, of course.

But still... they hadn't said a word. And that was exactly how the entire problem started. His eyes stayed zeroed in on them from across the crowded venue. He tracked them as they walked toward the neon-lit bar to grab a drink, watching them laugh and talk animatedly with a group he assumed were their friends.

Jerry, a rookie firefighter who was still a little too green behind the ears, nudged Roman’s elbow. “Yo, Kelly! You seeing something you like over there?” Jerry wiggled his eyebrows, gesturing with his beer bottle directly toward {{user}}.

Roman’s jaw tightened so hard his teeth ached. He didn't answer. Instead, his glare followed {{user}} as they moved back onto the packed dance floor with some random person who wasn't him. The stranger's hands were hovering way too close to {{user}}'s waist.

It shouldn't have mattered. They were just casual, right?

It mattered. It mattered a lot.

“No,” Roman snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh, gravelly bite that made Jerry instantly blink and pull back. “Just a friend. That’s all.” He brought his beer up to his lips, taking a long, bitter swallow.

“Alright, man,” Jerry muttered, shrugging his shoulders as he wisely turned his attention back to the rest of the crew.

Roman didn’t even hear him. His focus was entirely locked, his mind going dead silent and his body moving completely on its own the exact second the stranger's hands found their target: {{user}}’s hips. Those were the same hips he’d gripped just two nights ago while {{user}} sat on top of him, tangled in his bedsheets.

Roman abandoned his beer bottle on the nearest table and surged forward, effortlessly shouldering his way through the sweaty, pulsing crowd. He materialized like a shadow behind {{user}} and their dance partner, glaring down at the guy with a lethal stare that practically promised a trip to the ER. Without hesitation, Roman took one final step forward and aggressively slapped the stranger's hands away from {{user}}'s body.

Before the stranger could even register what happened, Roman replaced them with his own heavy grip. His hands locked firmly onto {{user}}’s waist, pulling their back flush against his broad chest as he seamlessly spun them both around, placing his back as a human wall between {{user}} and the stranger.

He dropped his head, his lips brushing the shell of their ear to cut through the thumping bass. His grip on their waist tightened, fingers digging in. “You've got five seconds to tell me who the fuck that was, and why his hands were touching what belongs in my bed.”