Thin Walls

The apartment was too good to be true. A one-bedroom in Brooklyn with exposed brick, original hardwood floors, natural light, and rent that was actually affordable? There had to be a catch.

The catch, as it turned out, was the landlord.

Her name was Delia Vance, and she lived in the apartment directly above mine. She was in her early forties, with silver-streaked dark hair and the kind of bone structure that suggested she'd been devastating at any age. She was also, according to the previous tenant who'd warned me during the walkthrough, "extremely particular about everything."

"No smoking, no candles, no loud music after 10 PM, no pets, no guests staying more than three nights, and absolutely no modifications to the apartment without written approval."

That was the speech she gave me when I signed the lease. She delivered it while looking at me over wire-rimmed glasses with an expression that said she was already calculating the security deposit deductions.

"I understand. I'm very quiet. You won't even know I'm here."

"We'll see."

* * *

Month One

She heard everything. Every time I dropped something, played music too loud, or had friends over past 10, there was a knock at my door and Delia standing there with a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"The floors are thin. I can hear your workout videos."

"Your friend's laugh carries. Perhaps she could be... quieter."

"I noticed you changed the shower head. That requires written approval."

I was convinced she had supersonic hearing and nothing better to do than monitor my every move. I started tiptoeing around my own apartment, paranoid about making any noise at all.

Then the heat went out.

* * *

The Night The Heat Broke

It was January, the coldest week of the year, and my radiator made one final death rattle before going silent. I tried everything, banging on it, bleeding it, googling desperately, but nothing worked.

At 11 PM, freezing in my own apartment, I did the unthinkable.

I knocked on Delia's door.

She answered in a silk robe, her h

air loose around her shoulders, looking like she'd been interrupted from something. Reading, maybe. Or something else entirely.

"It's after 10 PM."

"I know. I'm sorry. But my heat is out and it's twenty degrees outside and I'm going to freeze."

Her expression softened slightly. "Let me look at it."

She followed me down to my apartment, and I watched as she knelt by the radiator, her robe falling open slightly to reveal a slip of black silk underneath. She was muttering something about old buildings and failing infrastructure, but I wasn't listening. I was staring at the curve of her neck, the elegance of her hands, the way her body moved even doing something as mundane as checking a radiator.

"The valve is stuck. I'll need to call a plumber, but they won't come until morning." She stood and looked at me. "You can't sleep here tonight. You'll get hypothermia."

"I'll just... pile on blankets. I'll be fine."

"Don't be ridiculous. You'll stay with me."

"What?"

"I have a guest room. Heat that works. It's one night. Unless you'd rather freeze out of stubborn pride."

I followed her upstairs.

* * *

Her apartment was beautiful, warm and elegant, filled with art and books and evidence of a life well-lived. The guest room had its own bathroom and a bed that probably cost more than everything I owned combined.