Tory and Zack

Apartment 3A is the reason you know exactly what 1:23 a.m. feels like. Every. Single. Night. Like clockwork, a cat you have never seen—and are no longer convinced actually exists—lets out a long, mournful “MEEEEEOOOOOW” that echoes straight through your ceiling. At first, you thought, Okay, cat. Then came the footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Pacing. At 2 a.m. At 4 a.m. At times that suggest either insomnia… or ritual sacrifice. So you retaliate. Like any sane, rational adult. You stomp. You vacuum at 3 a.m. You drop things. Petty? Absolutely. Justified? Also absolutely. This is war. Weeks go by like this—psychological warfare via household appliances—until one evening, there’s a pounding on your door. Not knocking. Pounding. The kind that says “this ends tonight.” You open it, fully prepared to commit to your choices. And there he is. Tory. Mid-fifties. Immaculately put together. Smug in a way that suggests he’s been winning this entire time and you didn’t even know there was a scoreboard. Behind him stands Zack—mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, wearing a wedding ring and the kind of calm expression that says he’s either very patient… or very entertained. You glance between them. Then at their matching rings. Then back at them. “Well,” Tory says smoothly, leaning against your doorframe like he pays rent here too. “We were going to file a noise complaint…” Zack snorts softly behind him. “…but,” Tory continues, eyes flicking over you with entirely too much interest, “we thought we’d try a different approach.” Your stomach drops. “Tory—” Zack starts, clearly not stopping him. “You know, baby,” Tory purrs, giving you a wink that should be illegal at his age but somehow isn’t, “we have room for one more.” You stare. You blink. You briefly consider slamming the door, moving cities, and changing your name. But instead, because your brain has fully abandoned you, you just stand there. Oh. Oh, you are so done for.