Chapter 2: My Neighbor, My Nemesis

Back from a business trip, I crash for the whole weekend. I’m a human burrito on the couch, cocooned in a blanket, trying to recover from trauma and jet lag. Honestly, I might never move again.

I’m doomscrolling on my phone when an ad pops up for a certain little toy. The image is way too familiar. I freeze mid-scroll, thumb hovering in horror.

Wait—this model? Didn’t the factory say they shipped it to me? My brain scrambles, trying to remember if I ever got a delivery alert. Did I miss it?

[Package signed for at your door.]

I pull up Messenger and find Tyler—my across-the-hall neighbor—at the top of my chat list. He’s basically my package guardian angel, always saving me from porch pirates and lost boxes.

[Hey, Tyler! Sorry to bug you again! 🐱 Could you check if there’s a package for me? Thank you, you’re a lifesaver!]

Normally, I’m super chill waiting for a reply from my “model American neighbor”—a Messenger-only legend who’s rescued more of my packages than I can count. He’s the ultimate porch pirate deterrent. Always reliable.

But today? I’m crawling out of my skin. Patience? Never heard of her.

After being wrung out from overtime, I’m desperate for a little relief. I’m so tightly wound, I might snap in half. The promise of a new toy is the only thing keeping me afloat right now.

The new model’s supposed to be next-level. Honestly, just thinking about it makes me want to weep with hope. Sweet, sweet hope.

His dark blue profile pic sits there, mute. The little green dot mocks me. He’s online. Why isn’t he answering?

This craving is scratching at me like a needy kitten. I try to distract myself, but nope—it’s all I can think about. Enough waiting.

After ten minutes of pacing, I shuffle over in my slippers to his door. Hair? Whatever. Hoodie over pajamas, total gremlin mode. Let’s do this.

"Hey! Anyone home? I’m from 3B, across the hall. Just wanted to check if you’ve got a package for me…"

There’s a faint shuffle inside. After a moment, the door cracks open. A wave of warm air and a whiff of clean soap drift out, wrapping around me.

A cloud of steam billows past me, tinged with fresh laundry and something woodsy. It smells like comfort—and a little bit like trouble.

A man stands in the doorway, towel scrubbing through his hair. He’s fresh out of the shower, water droplets still clinging to his skin.

Water trickles down his hair, soaking the collar of a half-damp white T-shirt. The fabric sticks to his chest, tracing out muscles I thought only existed on Instagram.

Wide shoulders, trim waist, arms that look like they could bench-press a fridge. This guy could carry a sofa up three flights and not break a sweat.

He moves, and his features snap into focus. For a second, I forget how to breathe.

Sharp brows, straight nose, strong jaw. His eyes are a piercing blue—icy and unreadable.

I swallow. Loudly. Embarrassingly loudly. I want to crawl under the welcome mat.

Wait a sec—isn’t this… Officer Bennett? The guy from the airport? No way.

"Bennett…"

"Tyler Bennett."

He drops the towel, voice cool as ever. He’s completely unfazed by being half-dressed in front of a neighbor. Meanwhile, I’m about to combust.

"What do you need?"

He… he’s my “model American neighbor”? My brain is doing somersaults. Of all the people in this building, it had to be him?

"Uh… what a coincidence, I, um, have a package—right! A package…"

I stammer, eyes darting everywhere except his. If I look him in the eye, I’ll probably short-circuit. There’s a crack in the floor that suddenly looks fascinating.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his place is spotless. Minimalist, but warm—like he actually gives a damn about his space. Figures.

But then I spot it: on the little side table by the couch…

A small, round, pink thing. My heart leaps into my throat. Is that—?

My little toy? Did he… open it? My stomach does a triple backflip. This cannot be happening.

"Hey! Tyler Bennett! How could you! That’s my package! You can’t just open someone else’s mail!"

He looks genuinely startled, brows shooting up. For a second, he’s actually speechless.

"You—you’re way out of line! That’s, like, a total privacy invasion!"

"What I buy is none of your business! Even if I bought that—so what!"

I puff up, voice trembling like a phone on vibrate. I sound way braver than I feel. Go me.

"It’s totally normal to use this! It’s… it’s not shameful! It’s healthy! Legal! Even… ergonomically designed!"

Tyler just watches, arms crossed, head tilted. He looks like he’s studying a cat that just got its tail yanked. There’s a flicker of amusement, but he keeps it locked down tight.

When I finally run out of steam, he just picks up a box from the entryway and hands it over. He’s all calm efficiency, like nothing happened.

"Your package."

Recipient: Miss Lin. The tape is pristine—untouched, not a wrinkle in sight.

I…

One minute I’m all fire, the next I want to crawl into a hole. The embarrassment hits me like a tidal wave.

I want to grab the package and bolt, but curiosity glues me to the spot. My dignity and my panic are arm-wrestling.

"So… the thing on the table, what’s that?"

Tyler glances over, then back at me, voice flat as a pancake:

"Stress ball."

"Stress ball?"

He nods, totally unfazed. "Anything else?"

"No…"