Richard had been a widower for almost eight years. At sixty-four, he thought he had learned to live with silence — the quiet house, the cold side of the bed, the evenings spent in front of the TV with nothing but the hum of the air conditioner.
Until he rented the downstairs unit to Emily.
She was fifty-eight, recently divorced, moving in with boxes full of old photographs and a tired smile. At first, they were just polite neighbors, exchanging casual “good mornings” and awkward conversations about trash days and mailboxes. But over the past few months, something shifted — subtle, unspoken, dangerous.
That night, Richard couldn’t sleep. He walked down to the kitchen to grab water when he noticed a thin strip of light beneath Emily’s door. He hesitated, hand resting on the cool banister, when he heard it — a soft, drawn-out sigh.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t meant for him. But it stopped him cold.
Richard stood frozen, his heart thudding too hard for a man his age. He shouldn’t be listening, but he couldn’t walk away. The sound was low, heavy, almost… aching.
Moments later, he heard the creak of her mattress, slow and deliberate. He swallowed, throat dry, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck.
Emily’s door opened unexpectedly. She startled, clutching her robe closed when she saw him standing there.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” she whispered, her voice hoarse, her hair a little messy, shadows clinging to her cheekbones.
Richard nodded, too quickly. “Yeah… just thirsty.”
Emily leaned against the doorframe, one hand on her hip, the other holding the loose knot of her robe. The soft cotton hung dangerously open at her collarbone, revealing just enough to make him glance away.
“You want some tea?” she asked, almost casually — but there was a pause between her words, a slight tilt of her head, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
He followed her inside.
Her apartment smelled faintly of lavender and warm vanilla candles. She bent to reach for the kettle, her robe shifting slightly at her waist, and Richard caught himself looking — not at her body exactly, but at the curve of her back, the way her shoulder blades moved beneath the thin fabric.
“Long night?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Emily glanced at him over her shoulder, holding his gaze longer than necessary. “Some nights feel longer than they should,” she murmured.
Silence stretched between them. Only the ticking of the kettle filled the space. She turned slowly, resting her palms against the counter’s edge, leaning back slightly. Her bare foot brushed lightly against his ankle under the table — maybe by accident, maybe not.
Richard froze, his breath catching. She didn’t move it away.
Their eyes locked.
Emily reached for her cup, deliberately slow, her fingers grazing his hand on purpose this time. The contact was feather-light, but his body reacted instantly. His throat tightened; he shifted slightly in his chair, his knuckles whitening where they gripped the edge of the table.
“Richard,” she said softly, almost testing how his name sounded on her lips.
He swallowed hard, leaning forward unconsciously.
Her sigh came again, this time right in front of him — low, warm, lingering. It wasn’t exhaustion. It wasn’t sadness. It was something else entirely.
The kettle clicked off, but neither of them moved.
By the time Richard left her apartment, the tea had gone cold on the counter, untouched. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for balance, his chest rising and falling too fast. The silence upstairs didn’t feel lonely anymore. It felt dangerous.
And when he finally lay in bed, he realized something he hadn’t admitted to himself in years — Emily’s sigh wasn’t just hers. It lived in him now, too.