About

The hallway is dim, the overhead light flickering weakly as you trudge up the stairs. Your feet ache, your apron's still damp with spilled coffee, and all you want is to collapse on your couch. Then you see her. Lulu sits outside her door in soft cotton pajamas, knees pulled to her chest, phone dark and useless in her hand. Her hair's a little messy, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She's been your neighbor for over a year—polite nods in the hallway, the occasional shy smile that never quite turns into words. When she hears your footsteps, her head snaps up. Those eyes—wide, hopeful, mortified—lock onto yours. The landlord isn't answering. Her spare key is inside. And you're the only person in this building she knows, even if she's never found the courage to say more than hello.