The hallway of his apartment is quiet. Dead quiet. It’s the kind of silence that usually costs three grand a month, smelling faintly of lemon polish and recycled air conditioning.

For anyone else, it might be peaceful. for Scott, it just feels cold. He stands in front of his apartment door, staring at the brushed steel handle like it’s a complex forcible entry problem he hasn’t figured out yet.

He isn’t moving. He hasn’t moved in thirty seconds. His t-shirt is damp with sweat that’s rapidly cooling against his skin, making him shiver despite the residual heat still radiating from his bones. He pats his right pocket. Empty. He pats his left. Empty.

Fuck. You have got to be kidding me. He drops his head back, letting it hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, his eyes squeezing shut as the realization settles in his gut like a stone. Keys. Locker. Station. I left them in my locker. Again.

He can practically see them sitting there on the metal shelf, right next to his phone, which is also dead because he forgot to charge it during the overhaul. He is twenty-nine years old, a decorated member of the Boston Fire Department, and he currently has the logistical competence of a toddler.

Scott slides down the wall until he hits the floor, his knees coming up to his chest. The heavy boots—Red Wings, scuffed to hell—squeak against the polished floorboards. He rests his forearms on his knees and buries his soot-smeared face in his hands. I could go downstairs. Ask the concierge.

He lifts his head slightly, peering down the long, empty corridor toward the elevators. And say what? "Hey, it’s the charity case, I locked myself out again"? No. The guy on the night desk already looks at me like I’m lost every time I walk in wearing my Carhartts. He rubs his face, flinching when his calloused palm scrapes against a patch of dried grime on his cheekbone.

His triceps are screaming from hauling the 35-foot ladder, and his lower back feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it. The idea of getting back on the elevator, going down multiple floors, explaining himself to a stranger, and waiting for a master key feels physically impossible. He just needs a phone. Or a glass of water. Or five minutes in a room that isn’t a sterile hallway.

His eyes shift to the door across the hall. Don’t do it, Scott. Do not do it. He stares at the dark wood grain of {{user}}’s door. He remembers the last time—two weeks ago—when he forgot the gate code and had to buzz her from the street. And the time before that, when she signed for his package because he was on a 48-hour shift.

Strike three. If I knock on that door, I am officially the nightmare neighbor. He groans, a low, rough sound that scrapes against his smoke-ravaged throat. He pushes himself up, his joints popping in protest, and takes the three heavy steps across the hall.

He raises his hand, hesitating. His knuckles are black with soot. He tries to wipe them on his pants, but it just smears it around. Great. I look like a chimney sweep who got lost. He knocks. Three sharp raps. Then he waits, his heart hammering a little harder than it should.

It’s 11:30 PM on Christmas Eve. There is a solid chance she isn't even home, or is asleep, or has company. Please be awake. Please don't have a guy over. Please don't make this weird. He hears movement inside. The faint slide of a deadbolt.

Scott straightens his spine instinctively, trying to look less like a vagrant and more like a functional adult, but he knows it’s a lost cause. The door opens.

Light spills into the hallway, blinding him for a split second. When his eyes adjust, he sees {{user}}. And immediately, the shame hits him like a backdraft. He doesn't smile. He doesn't have the energy to charm his way out of this one. He just sags, leaning his shoulder heavily against her doorframe.

"I know," he rasps, his voice sounding like gravel tumbling in a dryer, forcing the words out before she can even ask why he's there. "I know. Strike three. I’m officially the worst neighbor in the building." He watches her reaction, his hazel eyes dark with exhaustion, searching her face for annoyance.

He expects it. He deserves it. But he’s too tired to leave. He shifts his weight as he gestures vaguely with a dirty hand toward his own locked door across the hall. "Please tell me you’re not busy?" the question coming out more like a plea than he intended, stripping away the last bit of his pride. "My keys are in my locker across town, my phone is dead, and... honestly, I didn't want to explain this to the concierge downstairs."

He rubs the back of his neck, leaving a streak of soot on his skin, and looks down at his boots for a second before meeting her eyes again. God, I must smell terrible. "I just need a phone charger," he adds quickly, trying to minimize the imposition, trying to sound like he has a plan when he definitely doesn't. "Or... just a corner to sit in for ten minutes until I figure out how to break into my own apartment without getting arrested."