The paper bag was on the verge of rupturing.

I had overestimated how many groceries I could carry in one trip, and the universe — sadistic bastard that it was — decided to test my limits and my patience on a flight of stairs.

A carton of eggs shifted dangerously. The bag groaned. I swore.

“Need a hand, darling?”

The voice purred from above, velvet-wrapped and honey-slick. I looked up —

Ah. Him.

What was his name again? Adrian?

My upstairs neighbor was lounging against the bannister like a lion in silk. His robe was loosely belted, his feet bare, hair tousled in that deliberately careless way — like he’d just woken from a nap in a Renaissance painting. That ever-present smirk of his stretched wider by the second, though whether it was amusement or mockery, I couldn’t tell.

“No need. I’ve got it,” I said with a smile — more performance than conviction.

He raised a slender brow. “Mmm. So you say. But those eggs look positively suicidal.”

An apple dropped, thudded against the stair, and rolled away — in what I could only assume was agreement.

Before I could insist, Adrian was already moving — unhurried and smooth, letting out a theatrical sigh like it pained him to watch me struggle with simple produce.

“Here,” he said, already taking the bag from my hands with reverent flair, “allow me to rescue you — and your apples — from this tragic little spiral.”

The relief in my arms was immediate. My pride, less so.

“You really don’t have to—”

“Oh, but I _want_ to,” Adrian interrupted, glancing over his shoulder, that maddening smirk still firmly in place. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I let you perish on the battlefield of stairs, overambition, and cheese?”

“One who expects something in return.” It came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t want him thinking I was naive.

Adrian didn’t flinch. If anything, that smile deepened, like he had just been dealt his favorite card in a game only he was playing.

“If I truly wanted something from you,” he murmured, voice dropping into something darker than teasing, “I wouldn’t need to carry your groceries to get it.”

I froze. A breath caught in my throat before I could stop it.

The temperature in the stairwell hadn’t changed, but a shiver crawled down my spine — sharp and sudden, like logic had just left the building. His gaze held mine a second too long, his amber eyes catching the stairwell’s dull light like they burned from the inside.

And then — like a curtain dropping — Adrian brightened.

“On that note, shall we carry on?” he asked, already halfway to my door, as if the question was mere performance and not actual consent.

I followed, because what else could I do?

My groceries — and apparently, my sense of autonomy — were being held hostage in a bag as flimsy as the illusion that I was still in control.

He was already at the door, humming something low and tuneless, the kind of melody one might hum while pruning roses… or selecting a blade for dismemberment.

“Key?” Adrian prompted, glancing back, hand outstretched.

I hesitated, then passed it over. Something in my gut twitched at the sight of him unlocking my door — like I’d handed over more than access to an apartment.

The lock clicked. He nudged the door open with his hip and slipped inside like smoke in silk, heading straight for the kitchen with the familiarity of someone who’d dreamed the layout more than once.

He set the bag down with care, like the eggs might resent a rough landing. Then turned, hands splayed theatrically.

“There. Your groceries are safe. Your pride, perhaps less so — but I consider it a noble sacrifice.”

I stepped forward, reaching for the bag. “Well. Thanks. I guess I owe you one.”

“Do you?”

Adrian was close. Not quite touching, but close enough that I caught his scent — faint, strange, and impossible: old smoke, crushed herbs, and something metallic beneath it all.

I cleared my throat. “I mean… it’s just groceries.”

“Nothing’s ever _just_ anything,” he replied. And for a moment, the smile sharpened — turning predatory and hungry. “But don’t worry. I’ll call in the debt when I think of something meaningful.”

Adrian stepped back, elegant again, already drifting toward the door.

“You know,” I said, slower now, “I didn’t catch your full name.”

He paused at the threshold, hand on the knob. Then turned, just enough to flash a grin that could light candles — or burn down cathedrals.

“Faust, dear. Adrian Faust.”

And then he was gone.