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But I am. “I see,” is the only thing I can find to say.

“I think they like the new digs,” she goes on, biting her bottom lip. “You know, morning sunlight, positive reinforcement, and gentle criticism for the ones who flop sideways and refuse to thrive.”

I nod because my mind is too busy drinking her in. Fuck. I need to get the fuck out of here before I do something stupid. Like fall for my neighbor. “I have to get to work,” I mutter, taking a step back toward the door. She’s making me soft. Hell, she’s driving me insane.

And for some reason, that doesn’t bother me as much as it should.

“See you later,” she calls behind me. Fuck. I shouldn't look forward to it, but I do.

The next morning, I drag my ass home after a long motherfucking twenty-four-hour shift, so wound up from dealing with a four-alarm blaze and two screaming rookies that I need to run the tension out of my system right this minute.

I barely manage to unlock my door without ripping the knob off. My hands are shaking. I’m wired, pissed off, and so amped I could probably run a marathon backward. I kick my boots off, strip out of my uniform in record time, and yank on my usual running stuff. Battered shorts that have seen better days, a soft tee with a small hole under the right armpit, and old tennis shoes that look like they've been chewed up and spit out by a wood chipper. Fuck it. I'm not trying to win a best-dressed contest. I just want to get the hell out of my own head.

I slam the door behind me, jog down the hall, and decide to take the stairs down to the lobby. I hit the street at a dead sprint. No warm-up, no stretching, just pure adrenaline and muscle memory. The morning air punches into my lungs, hot and humid, sweat breaking out before I hit the first block. My legs burn. Good. I want them to burn.

Every step is a ‘fuck you’ to the last twenty-four hours. To the two rookies who nearly drove me out of my goddamn mind, to frequent calls that just kept coming in, to the way Iris’s laugh keeps replaying in my skull, over and over, like some song I’m already obsessed with.

I run hard. Five miles, maybe more. By the time I stagger back up the stairs, I’m soaked, shaking with exhaustion, and I don’t even care.

I take the stairs two at a time up to the second floor. As I pass Iris’s door, I get a little whiff of her delicate floral scent, and my cock wakes the fuck up. Motherfucker. Just what I need. No matter how exhausted my body is, my dick just needs a little reminder of my gorgeous neighbor to turn to full wood.

The cool air hits me in the face as I storm through my apartment. I slam the bathroom door behind me and strip in one violent motion, shorts and tee hitting the floor before the water’s even on. I crank the dial all the way to cold. Not cool. Not refreshing. Frostbite, arctic-shock, holy-shit cold. The spray hits, and a shiver rushes up my spine.

I lean against the wall, forehead pressed to the tile, and wrap my hand around my cock. I squeeze hard, trying to banish her from my head, but it’s no use. All I see are those blue eyes, wide and bright, her lips curving in a smile just for me. Her robe slipping off her shoulder, a teasing flash of skin. The memory alone nearly undoes me.

I stroke faster, desperate and rough, hips jerking, chasing the friction like it owes me something. My breath comes out ragged, my head filled with nothing but her and the sharp, brutal need to come. I fuck my fist, squeezing tighter, faster, hips bucking into it like I can chase her voice, her laughter, the sunlight in her hair. My whole body locks up, muscles straining, and I groan her name through gritted teeth as I shoot all over my hand and the icy-cold tile.

For a second, everything just stops. I hang there, chest heaving, forehead against the wet wall, sweat and water mixing, my pulse thundering so loud it drowns out everything else.

Jesus Christ.

I soap up and rinse off fast, soap and water sluicing away the mess, but nothing can scrub her out of my brain. All I see behind my eyelids is Iris, skin flushed, eyes wide, lips parted in the kind of smile that makes me want to ruin her for anyone else.

I want her so goddam bad.

That’s the understatement of the year.

By the time I drag myself out of the shower, toss on sweatpants, and collapse on the edge of my bed, I’m still wired. Still thinking about her. There’s no peace.

I stare at my bedroom ceiling, veins still humming with leftover adrenaline and Iris-induced desire. My mind replays the way her voice gets all soft when she talks to her plants. The way she grins at me, like she thinks I’m funny and interesting and more than just the grumpy guy next door who can barely look her in the eye.

My chest squeezes. I roll onto my side and groan, pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead just to get a grip.

I’m so fucking gone over my stunning neighbor.

I want her with a hunger that's gone beyond craving into something primal. My body aches for her. Some nights, I lie awake staring at that shared wall between our apartments, wondering if she feels this invisible current humming between us, pulling like gravity.

I have to stop this. For real this time.

Starting a relationship with Iris? Disastrous. End-of-days, flaming-dumpster-fire bad. She’s barely out of college, all soft curves and brighter than daylight, and I’m just old, grouchy, and too set in my ways.

So, I tell myself I’m done. No more staring across the balcony. No more “accidental” run-ins in the hall, no more daydreaming about what she’d sound like screaming my name.

I’m going to do whatever it takes to bury this obsession for good. Distance, distractions, a goddamn exorcism. Whatever. Because letting myself want her? That’s the kind of craving that never ends well.

CHAPTER FOUR

IRIS