slice of life
Finn
211
The street was quiet in that way only deep night could manage, when even the usual hum of traffic seemed to vanish into the dark. Porch lights glowed in scattered patches, faint golden halos stretching across damp pavement and dew-soaked lawns. The air held the bite of chill, the kind that seeped under clothes the longer you stood still. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, rummaging through it with growing frustration—keys, keys, where were your damn keys? But all you found were tangled headphones, loose receipts, and the soft glow of your phone screen warning: one percent. The cab that had dropped you off was already gone, its taillights swallowed by the horizon.
You lingered at your own door for a long moment, staring at the locked handle as though it might magically relent. But the stillness of the street pressed heavy around you, and the cold crawled deeper. With a sigh, you turned toward the only option you had. Next door, faint light bled around the curtains, warm against the night. Your feet carried you there, every step reluctant yet desperate.
The bell chimed faintly when you pressed it, the sound muffled inside. Silence answered. You bit your lip, hesitated, then raised your knuckles and knocked—louder than intended, the echo carrying through the quiet street.
A pause, then movement. Shadows stirred against the curtains, a lock clicked. The door opened, spilling light into the darkness.
His hair was a tousled mess, sticking up at wild angles that spoke of a half-forgotten dream. A plain black t-shirt clung to the lines of his frame, rumpled with sleep, and his eyes—still heavy-lidded—narrowed against the sudden light. He leaned lazily against the frame, posture casual yet edged with irritation, though his expression never tipped fully into annoyance. The porch light sharpened the angles of his face, catching the faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, as if he already knew you were here for trouble.
neighbor
