Zane Wilder | Sorry you had to hear that

Zane Wilder had that particular brand of problem most guys only fantasized about until the fantasy started eating their fucking life.

Sex wasn’t just good—it was the only thing that shut his brain up. Stamina like a goddamn diesel engine, dick that stayed hard like it had a personal vendetta against soft, and a hunger that never really quit. So yeah, he fucked. A lot. Different girls every other night, sometimes the same one if she could keep up, always loud, always messy, always the kind of pounding that made the cheap-ass walls of this apartment building shake like they were about to give up and file for divorce.

The landlord had gotten smart about it months ago. After the third noise complaint from the floor below, the old bastard just moved Zane up to the empty top floor, handed him the key to the only occupied unit, and basically said, “Do whatever the fuck you want up here, just keep it off my desk.” The rest of the rooms sat vacant, collecting dust and the occasional echo of Zane’s latest session. Perfect setup. No neighbors meant no shame, no volume control, no bullshit. Just pure, unfiltered railing.

That afternoon the sun was still high when the new girl from his DMs—Clara, all soft curves and zero chill—showed up at his door already half-undressed under her jacket. Zane didn’t waste time. He had her bent over the back of the couch within five minutes, jeans shoved down her thighs, panties yanked to the side. The first thrust punched a loud, wet slap through the quiet floor. He gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks and drove in deep, the kind of steady, heavy rhythm that made the cheap springs under the cushions complain.

“Fuck, just like that,” he growled, voice low and rough. “Take it. Gonna wreck this pretty little cunt until you can’t walk straight.”

He kept going. Changed angles, flipped her onto her back on the floor, pulled her legs over his shoulders and hammered down like he was trying to nail her to the goddamn hardwood. Sweat ran down his chest. The wet sounds of skin on skin mixed with her broken moans and the steady thud of the couch legs scooting across the floor. Hours blurred. Sunlight shifted across the walls, turned gold, then pink, then disappeared completely. He came once, kept going, came again, still didn’t stop. By the time the moon was up he had her on all fours on the mattress, one hand fisted in her hair, the other braced on the wall so he could really put his weight into every stroke.

The apartment smelled like sex and skin and the faint burn of the cigarette he’d smoked earlier. His thighs burned. His dick ached in that perfect, overused way. He finally pulled out, rolled onto his back, and reached for the pack on the nightstand. The lighter clicked. Smoke curled up toward the ceiling while his pulse slowed.

That was when Clara, still breathing hard beside him, mentioned something about seeing boxes and a new face in the hallway earlier. Someone moving into the unit next door.

Zane froze mid-drag.

“You’re fucking with me.”

She wasn’t. He could hear it in the way the words settled in the dark room. Someone had moved in. Today. While he’d been busy rearranging Clara’s insides for the better part of six hours.

Guilt hit harder than the afterglow. Zane wasn’t a complete asshole. Thoughtless, sure. Loud as hell, absolutely. But he didn’t get off on making other people’s lives miserable. The landlord had put him up here specifically so the rest of the building didn’t have to listen to him fucking like a rabbit in heat. Now some poor soul was stuck next door with paper-thin walls and a front-row seat to the entire goddamn show.

Clara left not long after. Zane sat on the edge of the bed in the dark for a long time, cigarette burning down between his fingers, replaying every slap, every moan, every time the headboard had cracked against the shared wall. Jesus Christ. The new neighbor had heard everything.

Sleep wasn’t happening. He got up, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and headed for the kitchen. Baking had always been the weird little skill that kept his hands busy when his brain wouldn’t shut up. He mixed, measured, waited for the oven to preheat. Vanilla cake, nothing fancy, but solid. While it baked he stood at the counter, arms crossed, staring at the shared wall like it might start talking back. The timer went off. He frosted the thing, then grabbed a piping bag and carefully wrote across the top in messy chocolate letters:

Sorry you heard me fucking someone senseless.

Underneath, smaller:

P.s. it will happen again. sorry.

He left it on the counter to set and finally crashed for a couple hours as the sky started lightening.

Morning came too fast. Zane showered, pulled on a clean black T-shirt and the same sweatpants, and picked up the cake. The hallway outside his door still smelled faintly of packing tape and cardboard. He stopped in front of the unit next to his, the one that had been empty yesterday, and knocked once. Hard enough to be heard, not hard enough to sound like a psycho.

The door opened.

He put on his best easy smile—the one that usually got him out of trouble—and held the cake out like a peace offering.

“Hey. Neighbor. Name’s Zane. Live right next door. Figured I should introduce myself properly after... well. Yesterday was a lot.” He tipped his chin at the cake. “Made this. Thought it might help. Or at least taste better than the bullshit apology I was gonna try to give standing here empty-handed.”

He watched her eyes drop to the frosting, saw the exact moment the words registered. Her posture shifted—shoulders drawing in a fraction, one hand tightening on the edge of the door. He kept the smile in place, completely shameless.

“Look, I’m not gonna bullshit you. Walls are thin as hell up here. Landlord stuck me on this floor for a reason. I fuck loud. I fuck a lot. And I’m not exactly planning on becoming a monk just because someone finally moved in next door.” He gave a small, unapologetic shrug. “But I am sorry you had to hear the full soundtrack on your first day. Cake’s the least I can do.”

He held it out a little further, waiting. The hallway was quiet except for the low hum of the building’s old AC unit. Morning light cut across the scuffed floorboards between them. Zane kept his weight relaxed, one shoulder against the doorframe, watching the way her fingers hovered near the plate like she hadn’t decided yet whether to take it or slam the door in his face.

“No pressure,” he added, voice lower, almost amused. “But it’s a pretty good cake. And the message’s honest, at least. Future sessions are gonna happen. I’ll try to keep the volume down when I remember. No promises though.”

He smiled wider, the same wide, innocent-looking grin that didn’t match the words on the frosting at all, and waited to see what she’d do with the ridiculous, explicit apology he’d spent half the night baking.