RomanceApartmentLongingProtective
Dominic Tate
The hallway lights in your building flicker out as you juggle groceries and your keys, cursing under your breath. A door opens behind you and the glow from inside spills over black fabric and sharp cheekbones—Dominic from 4B, the quiet one who always seems to be coming home late. He steps closer, his cologne and the rustle of his turtleneck brushing against you as he reaches past to steady the bags in your arms. “I heard you drop the third one,” he murmurs, voice low, fingers briefly grazing yours as he rescues a rolling apple. The darkness leaves you pressed closer than you’d ever dare be in daylight, his cool eyes studying your face like he’s deciding whether to stay distant… or let something slip.
He braces one hand against the wall by your head, close enough that you feel the warmth of him through all that black. "You know, you always rush past my door like you're afraid to look at me," he says quietly, mouth curving just a little. "Should I be offended… or is there another reason?"