~Lucy~ "Yes, Tiff, yes! Keep going, you hard rider! Don't you dare stop..." I jolt awake, gasping for air. That dream. Again. The day Jim cheated on me didn't just break my heart-it burned itself into my brain. His voice. Her sounds. Their bodies tangled on my couch, in my house. He'd orchestrated the whole thing: sent me out of town with a fake client request, cleared the path for her. If my best friend hadn't seen him walk in with that girl, I'd still be the clueless fool. "Forget it." Now, almost every night, my mind replays that day like a horror movie on endless loop. And I can't find the remote. I stare at the half-finished painting in front of me. Blank. Again. My gaze drifts between the brush, the paint, and the canvas, where only the faint outline of a man's lips remains. Six months have passed since I last painted something that mattered. The gallery is waiting. My clients are waiting. And I'm supposed to deliver a romantic piece-my specialty, my bread and butter. I've been doing this since I was seven. This is what I'm known for. People say I paint desire like poetry. I don't just paint. I provoke. My art doesn't hang quietly on white gallery walls. It pulses. It breathes. It tempts. Those who look at my work don't just see it-they feel it. Deep in their bones. In their throats. I paint the kind of pieces that make you ache for a connection. But now my brush feels like lead. Jim killed the spark. He didn't just take my trust-he took my muse. "That good-for-nothing!" I stab the air with my finger like it's his face. He's out there living his best life: romantic dinners, someone by his side. Meanwhile, I'm stuck in my room, stuck in my head, unable to feel so much as a flicker of passion. How am I supposed to paint passion when I've forgotten what it feels like? I sigh and roll my shoulders. "I'm going to do this. Today, I'm painting something. No excuses." I reach for the brush-then freeze. Voices drift through the wall. I drop the brush and tiptoe to the door, pressing my eye to the peephole. Harry, the luggage porter, stands beside a massively built man. Incredibly tall. Broad shoulders that barely fit the frame. His hoodie swallows his face, leaving me with more questions than answers. Don't turn away. Let me see you. "Welcome to the estate," Harry says, shaking the man's hand. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to reach out." "Thank you, Harry." The words roll out in a rich, deep tone-the kind that vibrates in your chest and lingers in your ears. Mr. Next Door reaches into his pocket, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and hands it over. "Oh..." Harry chuckles, suddenly much friendlier. "Thank you, sir. You're very generous." Hmm. Sweet guy. Or at least a generous one. I make a mental note: potential human being, not a complete monster. But then I remember the last neighbor. The one who got escorted out in handcuffs. Hope dies fast around here. I sigh and shuffle back to my canvas. "Come on, Lucy. Just one stroke. One line. Something." Nothing. My mind goes blank the second my fingers touch the brush. It's like the universe finds my desperation amusing. "Fine," I mutter, grabbing my keys. "I'll just go to the gallery and sit there doing absolutely nothing instead." An hour later, I'm slumped in the corner of my own gallery, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon light, when the door swings open. And he walks in. I sit up straighter. That's my new neighbor. I'd recognize him anywhere-same black hoodie, same broad shoulders, same aura of someone who's never been told "no" in his life. His jawline is sharp. His frame takes up the entire doorway. He scans the room like he owns it-or like he's about to buy it and burn it down. "Is anyone going to attend to me?" His voice slices through the silence, low and impatient. Three of my assistants rush toward him, practically tripping over each other. To be fair, men who look like that don't usually stroll into an erotic art gallery unless they're already planning to misbehave. "I'd like to see the artist," he says curtly, brushing past them. I step forward, wiping my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans. "Hello, I'm Lucy Lane-" "Okay." He cuts me off. Doesn't even look at me. My outstretched hand hangs in the air. Oh, you have got to be kidding me. I suppress a sigh and withdraw my hand, following him as he prowls through the gallery. His expression says everything: unimpressed. Bored. Why did I even come here? Hold on. Is this man seriously trying to tell me my paintings-the ones that make people blush and question their life choices-don't intrigue him? "Where's your best piece?" he asks. Still not looking at me. I grit my teeth. So nothing's good enough for Mr. Broody? "This is all I have," I say, forcing a tight smile. "What exactly are you looking for?" "I don't think you have it." His eyes keep scanning the walls. "Well," I offer, fighting to keep my voice even, "if you tell me what you're after, maybe I can make it work. Or refer you to some of my colleagues." He sighs. "No, thanks." And just like that-he heads for the exit. What the- "Hey." I call out before I can stop myself. "We're neighbors, I think. I live next door." He pauses. Just for a second. "Okay." Then he walks out. The door swings shut behind him. I stand there, jaw tight, fists clenched at my sides. Who does this man think he is? Walking around with his attitude and his voice that I'm definitely not thinking about right now. Unbelievable. And I'm going to make sure he knows I don't give a damn who he thinks he is.

~Rhett~ I grab a pillow and clamp it over my ears, desperate to drown out the shrill noise drifting through the air. "This woman has got to be kidding me!" Maybe I should just suffocate myself under this pillow. Anything would be better than being subjected to my neighbor's violin playing, which, by the way, sounds like an assault on my eardrums. This woman just ruined my childhood. I'll never enjoy the memory of my mother playing the violin again. It used to be my peace, my happy place. Now I'm not even sure I'll ever pick up a violin again. It's been two hours. Two. There's no way I'm sleeping tonight. I pace the room like a madman, barely restraining myself from storming out, banging on her door, and yelling at her to stop. But no. I don't want her to think I even know she exists. She's tutoring someone? Fine. I won't say a word. I'll show her. I hook up my sound system, scroll to the loudest playlist I can find, and blast it at full volume. Not just to annoy her; although, yes, definitely to annoy her, but because I'd rather listen to club beats at 2 a.m. than suffer through her murdering Beethoven one string at a time. This isn't exactly me, I know. But I'm in the human world, pretending to be one of them. It's only fair that I act like one. "My annoying neighbor is the last thing I need in my miserable life right now." "Is she?" My wolf, Khair, chimes in. "I love her scent." I pinch my eyebrows "You love her what? Khair, she's human." "I can't explain it, but there's something about her scent. It's sweet and..." "That's not what we're here for," I sharply cut him off. "My mission is to find the beast who murdered my parents. That's why I'm in the human world, not to get involved with human girls. And besides, I can't risk getting involved with one." "So you care about her?" Khair teases. "Oh, shut up, Khair." I roll my eyes. "I met her yesterday. I don't even know what she looks like." "I do. She's pretty, and judging from her art, she's got a bold imagination." "Doesn't impress me," I hiss. "But you liked her scent. It stirred your skin." "She's human!" I snap. "Stop fighting it, Rhett." "No. What you should do is keep your eyes off human girls. Forbidden territory. I want nothing to do with her." "So we're just going to keep starving because of your ego?" "This is not ego. Humans are forbidden. I don't even like them. And for the last time, Khair, I'm not here to chase after girls." "We can have some fun while hunting our guy. I want this artist. Get her into your bed." "Absolutely not!" The sudden bang bang bang on the door yanks me out of the argument in my head. I quickly lower the music and rush over. Whoever it is sounds like they're ready to break the door down. "Dude, what the hell?!" My neighbor barks the moment I open the door. "Why are you blasting music at this hour? Are you crazy?" "What's crazy," I shoot back, "is that thing you were playing that stole my sleep." She narrows her eyes. "So your solution is to shake the whole building with your speaker? You're not the only one who lives here." "And you should've remembered that before trying to damage my eardrums with that violin session." She groans and clenches her fists at her sides. She's mad, properly upset. And she looks kinda cute like that. "If you play that music again," she snaps, "I will call management." Then she spins around and storms off, hips swaying in those little shorts she's got on. I notice. Of course I notice. I sigh and jump on my bed. "Come on, Rhett. She's attractive. You can't deny that." "Shut up!" I brush Khair off, the last thing I need right now is that annoying woman. I wake up with a pounding headache... And of course, my usual early morning frustration. The headache is all thanks to my neighbor's awful violin playing. The frustration has been simmering ever since my parents were murdered and my pack torn apart. The one who did it didn't just destroy us; he cursed us. That curse has left us weak, divided and struggling. It's been over fifteen years, and the fire still hasn't gone out. We've been searching for a cure, a loophole, anything, but nothing works. And if we don't break this curse soon, I'll lose my wolf. My pack will too. We'll be reduced to humans, we'll be vulnerable, helpless, prey. When enemies come-and they will-we won't survive. The wolf kingdom will either cast us out... or wipe us out. My lineage cannot end with me. My generation cannot fade into nothing. I'm dying everyday, this curse is eating me up and I'm helpless, but I'll find a way. Which is why I've been here all these years, playing hockey, building a name and staying in the spotlight. The Moon Goddess had whispered that I'd find my answers here, that something special in this place would lead me to the one who destroyed my pack... and maybe even to her, my fated mate, the one who holds my redemption. That's why I pushed for the transfer. I pressured my management until they sold me to a new club. And now, here I am. Right where fate wants me. Even if it means dealing with an annoying human neighbor who plays the violin like she's strangling it. I breeze through my routine, throw on my gym clothes, and grab my duffel bag. The gym is one of the places I go to release my anger. And just as I step out, I hear that same familiar sound. My neighbor is humming that same awful violin piece from yesterday. She's even bad at humming it. I try to ignore her but nearly bump into her. "Oh, sorry," I mutter quickly. "You would've been sorry if you actually hit me," she snaps, her glare sharp. "Excuse me?" I blink, but she's already turning away, hips swaying in those tight gym leggings. She looks fit; really hard to not notice. Fine, I admit it. But she's so annoying. I cannot stand her. And now, judging by her matching workout set, she's heading to the same gym. Of course she is. Inside the elevator, she leans back against the wall, arms crossed like she's shielding herself from me. She sighs softly, like my presence alone offends her. The only good thing about this woman being my neighbor is the fact that she doesn't know I'm Rhett Lawson; she probably doesn't care about hockey and I'm really glad. She suddenly presses another button. Changing floors. Why is my neighbor changing her mind? "You're not going to the gym anymore?" I ask. Not that I care. Really. She glares at me. "How is that your business?" "You were the one who got in first and pressed the button for the gym floor." "Mind your own business! You're so annoying!" she snaps, chin lifted like she's ready for a full-on courtroom battle. I say nothing, but I want to snap back. I don't know how a total stranger has this kind of effect on me. I don't act like this, especially not with people I don't know. I'm supposed to stay low-key, and avoid drama. So instead of making this worse, in case she pulls out her phone and records some "meltdown in elevator" moment and posts it on social media, I shut my mouth. When the elevator dings on the gym floor, I step out in silence. But I can feel her eyes on me, burning into my back like she's not done yet. But I have no time for her.

~Lucy~ I pace around my room like a lunatic, waiting for Mr. Next Door to come back from the gym. I've peeked through my peephole at least a hundred times but nothing. Is he still working out? What is he trying to do, sculpt a Greek god's body just to walk around shirtless and smug? Why is he even gone this long? I can't wait for him to return. The moment I hear his key in the door, I'm pulling out my violin. And this time? Oh, I'm going full-on torture mode. I'll make it more annoying than ever, screechy, off-key and loud. I'll make sure he regrets ever messing with me. And when he comes banging on my door I won't even answer. Let him suffer. I'll make sure I annoy him until he moves out. Doesn't he have a big attitude? I'll make him pay for it. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? Walking around like some big shot with his stupid jawline and those stupid arms and that dumb "I'm too good for violin music" attitude. Blasting loud music like it's okay, but my violin is the problem? Please. My cat Kinny, may he rest in peace, loved my violin playing. My grandmother used to say I had the hands of an angel. So who the hell does this gym-addicted music snob think he is? I wasn't even able to workout yesterday because of him and today he decides to spend the whole evening at the gym? He's not getting a wink of sleep tonight. Even if it's the last thing I do. Suddenly, my phone rings, snapping me out of my spiral. I smile when I see the name, my best friend, Freya. "Hey, Frey. I miss you." "I miss you more, Lulu! What's up with you? Have you been able to paint anything today?" I let out a dramatic sigh. "Nothing yet. I'm still blocked." "Aww, bestie. Don't push it, okay? Just take your time. It'll come back." "It's so hard, Frey," I groan, pulling my hair into a messy fist. "I know," she says gently. "But don't stress it too much. Don't burn yourself out." I sigh again, flopping back onto my bed. "How are you doing?" "I'm good! What are you up to right now?" "Oh, just waiting for Mr. Next Door to return from the gym so I can torture his ears tonight." She laughs, full and loud. "Lulu! Leave that man alone! Why not just be friendly for once? You need a man in your life. Imagine your neighbor! Built-in cuddle buddy." "Frey, what the hell? Are you seriously trying to hook me up with that grumpy man?" "You said yourself he's attractive! Didn't you call him 'body of an athlete' and everything?" she squeals. "Ugh, I need to see him." "I did say that, but guess what? His attitude slapped me in the face." "Oh, come on. Soften up a little. You need some romance in your life." "FREYA!" "I'm serious! Think about it. You could use Mr. Next Door as inspiration for that half-finished canvas." "How?!" I groan, rolling my eyes so hard they almost get stuck. "He's attractive. He could spark something in you. And that might bring your creativity back." "Frey, shut up. He's rude. I don't want him." "Maybe he's only mean because he's lonely too." "There's no way he's single. But if he is? With that attitude? No wonder." "Lulu, listen, that man could wake something up in you. Use him and stop being a headache to him. You two just need some spark in your life, especially you, it's been two years, Lu." I roll my eyes. "Get off my phone." She cackles. "I gotta go anyway. Saving lives and curing diseases, you know." "Yes, yes, go be a superhero, Doctor Freya, and leave your emotionally unstable bestie alone." I chew on my bottom lip, thinking about what Freya just said. It's... a good idea, I'll admit. But Mr. Next Door? He's so grumpy, so infuriating, I cannot, for the life of me, imagine myself in any kind of relationship with that man. "No." I shake my head, shoving the thought away. Besides, I don't even feel that spark anymore. That part of me died the day my stupid ex crushed it. So thanks, but no thanks. My phone buzzes again. "Ugh, what now?" I mutter, grabbing it. It's an email from my aunt. A wedding invitation, my cousin is getting married. "There's absolutely no way I'm going to that wedding," I scoff out loud. Jim will be there. Of course he will. All my former classmates too, they are friends with my cousin since we were all in the same class. That whole wedding is basically a glorified high school reunion, one giant reminder of everything I'd rather forget. Sure, I'm doing well. I'm recognized for my art. I could show up and rub that in their faces the same way they'll try to flaunt their picture-perfect lives in mine. But do I really want to go through that? That exhausting game of "look at how far I've come" while pretending not to care about what anyone else thinks? No. No way. That's a hard pass. I'll need to come up with some excuse, I'm not going. ------------- I had waited almost three hours. Bored out of my mind and unable to fight the urge any longer, I finally throw on my gym clothes and head downstairs. Just to see, you know, casually, if Mr. Grumpy is still there. Sure enough, there he is; brooding, sweaty and shirtless. He's slamming a weighted medicine ball to the ground, over and over, like he's trying to murder the floor. His muscles flex and ripple with every throw. Veins bulge down his arms, and there's this low grunt he makes each time he lifts the ball above his head. And when he switches to doing thrusts with a barbell across his shoulders... I notice. Each controlled thrust forward is too smooth, too rhythmic. And I hate that I notice it. Even worse, I feel a flutter deep in my core. Nope. Absolutely not. I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of it. But before I can look away, he glances over his shoulder, and our eyes meet. Oh no. It feels like he's been watching me. There's something about the way he looks at me, like he can see me, even when his back is turned. Like he knows I'm there, breathing, thinking, watching him too. My stomach flips and heat rushes up my neck. He caught me staring. I'm so embarrassed. I spin around so fast I nearly crash into a treadmill. Just great. Now I can never come to this gym again. I grit my teeth, regretting ever coming down here. I don't even want to imagine what he thinks of me right now.