"I should let you get back to your Shakespeare," I say, retrieving my coffee mug.
"And I should allow you to return to your writing."
"Yeah. About that." I pause at his doorway. "Next time you can't sleep, maybe try the comedy plays instead of the tragedies. Less existentially stressful."
"An excellent suggestion, Ms. Ruiz."
"Maya," I correct. "If we're going to be splitting renovation costs, we might as well use first names."
"Maya." The way he says it, careful and precise, makes it sound like he's testing the syllables. "I am Ursak."
"I know. From the note."
"From the note," he agrees.
I head back to 4C with my lukewarm coffee and the strangest feeling that I've just agreed to something more complicated than soundproofing.
But for the first time in three weeks, the bass notes have stopped completely.
Maybe this partnership won't be a complete disaster after all.
I stand in my hallway for thirty seconds, staring at my own door like it might have answers. The fluorescent light above me flickers in that annoying rhythm that usually makes me want to unscrew the bulb and live in darkness.
Tonight it just feels normal. Background noise instead of active torture.
Weird.
The apartment feels different when I step inside. Quieter, obviously, but also emptier somehow. Like the constant bass vibration had become white noise I didn't realize I was depending on.
My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter, cursor blinking in an empty document. The article about sustainable food storage was supposed to be finished three hours ago. Instead, I've spent the evening having the most bizarre neighborly encounter of my adult life.
I dump the cold coffee down the sink and start a fresh pot. The familiar ritual grounds me, measure, pour, wait for the magic to happen. Except while I'm waiting, my brain keeps circling back to book pajamas and careful word choices and the way Ursak said my name like he was learning a new language.
Which, technically, he probably was.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and I find myself pulling down two mugs instead of one. The second one happens to be my favorite, A ridiculous thing shaped like a typewriter that my sister gave me last Christmas. It's impractical and holds too much coffee and I love it more than most people.
What are you doing, Maya?
But I'm already pouring coffee into both mugs, adding sugar to mine and leaving his black because he seems like a black coffee type of person. Precise. Unadorned. No unnecessary additions.
The walk back to 4B feels longer this time. Maybe because I'm carrying hot liquid and trying not to think too hard about why I'm doing this. Neighborly courtesy, that's all. We just agreed to split renovation costs. Basic politeness suggests offering coffee to your new business partner.
Even if your business partner happens to be an orc whose voice can literally rearrange your internal organs.
His door is still slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I can hear him moving around inside, but no more Shakespeare. No bass notes vibrating against the walls.
I knocked this time. Actual knocking, like a civilized person.
"Come in."
Ursak stands at his kitchen counter, writing in one of those perfectly organized notebooks. His handwriting looks like calligraphy, each letter formed with deliberate precision. He glances up when I enter, eyebrows rising slightly at the sight of two coffee mugs.
"I thought you might want some," I say, offering him the typewriter mug. "Fair warning, it's probably stronger than whatever you're used to. I don't believe in weak coffee."
He accepts the mug with both hands, studying the typewriter design like it's a fascinating artifact.
"This is quite unique."
