Trouble Next Door

Mia’s POV

The thin wooden stick snapped right between my fingers.

It was a sharp crack that echoed off my desk the second the floor started shaking from a heavy bassline next door. The tiny roof beam I’d spent forty-five minutes sanding broke into two pieces, dripping glue all over my cutting mat.

"That's a new sound," Maya said without looking up from her phone. She was sitting on my kitchen counter, eating dried mangoes. "Sounds like the speakers are taped right to your wall."

I stared at the ruined piece of wood. "I have two hours before this glue dries, Maya. Two hours."

"And you've been sitting there since six this morning," she said, eating another piece. "Professor Vance said this model was half your grade, not half your life. You don't have to build a whole miniature house just to prove you're the best in class."

"I'm not trying to prove anything," I said, grabbing my tweezers to fix it.

"Right. You just happen to have three different types of foam board, two knives, and a coffee pot that hasn't been turned off since Tuesday." Maya swung her legs over the counter. "Your mom called me yesterday, by the way."

My hand stopped. "Why did my mom call you?"

"To ask if you were eating real food. She said Nadia is taking a break from school in Cabo, and she needs at least one daughter whose life isn't a mess."

"My life isn't a mess," I said, scraping dried glue off the mat. "Everything is under control."

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

A framed picture on my wall shifted two inches to the left. Dust fell onto my paper.

I dropped the tweezers. They hit the desk with a loud clatter. That was it.

"Where are you going?" Maya called out as I pushed my chair back.

"To handle this," I said.

"Do it in the hallway so I can hear!"

I slammed the door of 4B behind me. The noise was three times louder out here—a heavy song pounding through the door of Apartment 4A. The place had been empty for three weeks. Whoever moved in clearly thought the hallway was a nightclub.

I walked up to the door and knocked hard.

Nothing happened. The music kept playing, shaking the floor under my socks.

"Hey!" I yelled, knocking harder. "Turn it down!"

The music didn't stop, but after ten seconds, the lock clicked. The door opened.

The words died in my throat.

Standing in the doorway was a guy wearing only dark grey sweatpants. His hair was wet, and a drop of water rolled down his chest. He was holding a slice of pizza in one hand and a paper towel in the other.

He looked down at me, his eyes instantly curling into a lazy smile.

Damon Blackwood.

The famous Damon Blackwood. Star player for the school hockey team, engineering major, and the most annoying guy in my studio class.

"You're shaking my apartment," I blurted out, pulling my hands into fists.

Damon took a slow bite of his pizza, looking me up and down—from my oversized, stained sweatshirt down to my socks.

"Sullivan," he said, his voice deep and raspy. "Didn't know you lived next door."

"I’ve lived here for a year. You moved in five minutes ago and you're already making too much noise." I crossed my arms. "Turn the music off. I have a big project due on Friday and your sound system just broke my model."

Damon leaned against the doorframe. "It broke? Sounds cheap. Maybe you built it wrong."

"I built it just fine. Your music is too loud."

"It's just forty-two hertz," he said, a tiny dimple showing in his cheek.

"I don't care! I care about my grade!" I took a step closer and pointed at his chest, stopping just an inch short of touching him. "Turn. It. Off."

Damon looked at my finger, then back at my face. He didn't look angry at all. He looked entertained. "You know, most people ask nicely when they want something from a neighbor."

"It's not a favor, Blackwood. It's basic manners. Something you clearly don't have!"

He let out a short laugh, wiping his thumb with the paper towel. "You're very loud for someone so small."

"I will throw your speakers out the window."

"Good luck," he said smoothly, taking a step forward so I had to tilt my head to look at him. "They're heavy and bolted down. I paid the old tenant two hundred bucks in cash just to take his lease early so I could live here because it's closer to the gym."

My jaw tightened. "You paid him off?"

"Yup." He looked at me one more time. "You look stressed. You should listen to music. It helps you relax."

"I don't need your advice. I need a quiet neighbor."

Damon reached behind him and grabbed a remote off a table. He pressed a button, and the music dropped to a low hum.

"There," he said quietly, leaning in just enough that I caught the scent of his soap. "Happy? Now go fix your project."

Before I could answer, he shut the door, and the lock clicked into place.

I stood in the hall for three seconds, staring at the number 4A on his door, clenching my teeth.

"Stupid piece of shit," I muttered, turning around and walking back to my apartment.

When I opened my door, Maya was leaning against the counter with a broad smile. "So? Who is he? Is he hot?"

"It's Damon Blackwood," I said, slamming the door shut.

Maya’s eyes went wide. "The Damon Blackwood?"

"He's a nightmare," I said, walking to my desk and grabbing my glue. "Can you believe he paid the old guy money under the table just to be near the gym?"

"Was he shirtless?" Maya asked, walking over to look over my shoulder. "Because I saw him at the gym last week and he looks amazing."

"I didn't notice," I lied flatly, rolling my eyes at her.

"You're blushing, Mia."

"I'm angry!"

My phone buzzed on the desk. It was a text from my mom:

Hi sweetie! Just checking in. Did you sleep well? How is school? Hope everything is peaceful!

I stared at the screen and typed back:

Everything is great, Mom! Super quiet here. Studying hard and staying on top of everything. Don't worry!

I hit send and put the phone face down.

"Quiet, huh?" Maya whispered, reading the text before I hid it.

"It will be," I said firmly. "Because I am going to ignore him, finish this project, and get an A."

A little while later, Maya said goodbye and left. I stayed at my desk, carefully gluing tiny pieces together.

Around four o'clock, I heard a loud scrape in the hallway outside my door.

I sighed and stood up to stretch my back. I opened the door to see if someone was fixing the hallway heater.

Nobody was there.

The hallway was empty, with the afternoon sun shining through the window at the end. But down by the old metal heater—right between my door and Damon's—something silver caught the light.

I walked over and knelt down, reaching my hand under the heater.

My fingers touched a heavy metal key attached to a plastic tag. I pulled it out. Written in black marker on the plastic were two simple characters:

4A

With a smirk on my face, I straightened up and kept the key.