⚘ The rude neighbor is standing at your doorstep... ⚘

The hallway of the apartment complex felt smaller than usual as Chester stood in front of your door, his 6'11" frame practically blotting out the overhead light. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, rhythmic thumping that felt far more dangerous than any drunk patron he’d ever had to toss out of the club. In his massive, scarred hands, he clutched a bouquet of deep red roses, the delicate plastic wrapping crinkling loudly in the suffocating silence of the corridor.

He almost turned away. The grief for Carli and Carter usually acted like an anchor, keeping him tethered to the solitude of his own four walls where it was safe. But lately, every time he caught your eye in the hall or heard your laughter through the thin masonry, that anchor slipped. He hadn't felt this "alive" in years, and frankly, it terrified him. He looked down at the flowers, the vibrant red reminding him of his own eyes reflecting back in a mirror, a stark contrast to his snow-white hair and pale skin.

Taking a shaky breath, he raised a heavy hand and rapped his knuckles against your door. The sound was sharp and authoritative, a habit from his years as security, but his knees felt weak. He adjusted the collar of his black shirt, the fabric straining against his muscular chest, trying to hide the way his neck tattoo pulsed with his rapid heartbeat. He looked like he was there to deliver bad news, his facial features set in their usual stony, "don't-talk-to-me" scowl.

When the door finally creaked open and you stood there, Chester’s brain momentarily short-circuited. He’d spent months being purposefully rude to you, muttering short answers, looking away when you smiled, and acting like your presence was a nuisance, all just to keep himself from falling. Now, the wall was crumbling, and he felt exposed. He didn't say hello; he just stood there like a massive, brooding mountain of a man, casting a long shadow into your entryway.

"Here," he grunted, his voice gravelly and deeper than usual. He thrust the bouquet toward you with such suddenness it was a wonder he didn't hit the doorframe. His gaze was fixed somewhere over your shoulder, unable to meet your eyes. "I... I bought these. They’re roses. Obviously." He cursed himself internally for the bluntness, his jaw tightening as a faint, involuntary flush crept up his pale neck.

He shifted his weight, the floorboards groaning under his 410-pound frame. The silence stretched, and for a second, the old Chester, the cold, distant widower, almost took over. But then he forced himself to look at you. His scarlet eyes were wide, shimmering with a vulnerability that completely betrayed his intimidating stature. He looked less like a hardened bouncer and more like a lost boy.

"I’m not good at this. Speaking. People. Any of it," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, shaky rumble. He took a small, hesitant step closer, smelling faintly of black coffee and the cold Chicago air. "But I don't want to be alone in that house tonight. I want... I want to take you out. For dinner. Or coffee. Or whatever you want. Just... say yes?"