Chapter 40 The Floor Above
Damian's POV
The new place wasn't anything special - just walls, furniture, and quiet. That was all I'd asked for.
After months of chaos, I needed quiet.
I found the apartment through a friend who said the building was "peaceful, good security, perfect for people who need to breathe again."
He was right.
Mostly.
It was smaller than I was used to - a modest two-bedroom overlooking the river. But there was something grounding about it. I'd traded glass offices for wooden floors, the city skyline for a view of laundry lines and morning sunlight.
For the first time in a long time, it felt like home didn't demand anything from me.
Boxes still lined the walls, half-unpacked. My clothes were still in suitcases. But the fridge was stocked, the coffee machine worked, and that was enough.
That first night, I slept like a man finally out of battle.
Until the noise started.
A low thud at first - rhythmic, persistent. I frowned, glancing at the clock. Almost midnight.
At first, I told myself it was the pipes. Or maybe the radiator. Something mechanical, harmless.
But then it wasn't.
The sound was too human.
A soft gasp.
Then another.
And then-
A rhythm I couldn't mistake if I tried.
I froze mid-step, the glass of whiskey in my hand trembling.
It wasn't the noise itself that made my pulse spike. It was the familiarity of it - the cadence, the way it built and broke apart in waves.
I'd heard that sound before.
Not exactly like this. But close enough.
Elena.
No.
I pressed a hand to my temple, laughing under my breath - sharp, humorless. "You're losing it," I muttered. "She doesn't live here. She can't."
But the more I listened, the harder it was to believe my own lie.
My pulse jumped.
I sat up, shook my head. "Don't," I muttered. "Don't go there."
It couldn't be her.
Of all the buildings in the city, all the apartments for rent - it wasn't possible.
It wasn't just the sound - it was the feeling of it. That same breathless edge she used to get when we'd kiss, when she'd pull back, laugh nervously, and whisper my name like it was something dangerous.
And now someone else was earning that sound.
I turned the volume on the TV up, but it didn't help. The noise filtered through anyway - muffled, distant, yet sharp enough to cut.
I should've ignored it.
Instead, I sat there, every nerve in me wired, every muscle tight, the whiskey burning down like punishment.
By the time it stopped, I hated myself a little more.
For caring.
For remembering.
For still wanting her, even now.
Morning came with sunlight and a headache.
Someone was dragging something heavy upstairs - furniture, maybe. It scraped across the floor like nails against my patience.
I threw on a sweatshirt and went to grab coffee, but even that didn't help. The scraping continued, followed by a dull thump that shook the ceiling.
I exhaled sharply. Enough was enough.
Half an hour later, I was at the upstairs floor, knocking on the door of the offending apartment.
At first, there was silence. Then soft footsteps.
The door opened.
And the world tilted.
"Elena?"
Her name left my mouth before I could stop it.
She stood there - barefoot, hair loose and wild around her shoulders, wearing an oversized shirt that clearly didn't belong to her.
The air between us crackled - surprise, disbelief, and something far heavier.
"Damian," she breathed, eyes wide. "What are you-"
I blinked, trying to find words, but my brain refused to process what I was seeing.
The shirt - pale gray, too large for her frame, sleeves nearly covering her hands. A man's shirt.
She tugged at the hem unconsciously, her cheeks flushed, though whether from embarrassment or shock, I couldn't tell.
I forced a shaky laugh. "I-I didn't realize you lived here."
"I could say the same thing," she replied, recovering faster than I did. Her voice was calm, but her eyes - they gave her away. Confusion. Tension. Maybe even panic.
"I just moved in," I said, gesturing vaguely downstairs. "The noise kept me up. I came to... ask if you could maybe keep it down a bit."
Her face froze - just for a second - and then she nodded, too quickly. "Right. Sorry about that. It won't happen again."
There was a faint scent in the air - coffee, perfume, and something else. Something intimate.
I shouldn't have noticed. I wished I hadn't.
"I didn't mean to bother you," I managed, stepping back.
She hesitated. "You didn't."
For a moment, neither of us moved. The hallway felt smaller somehow - air thick, silence pressing between us.
Then, from somewhere inside the apartment, a soft sound - a floorboard creaking, a mug setting down.
My stomach turned.
There was someone else here.
Of course there was.
She caught the flicker in my eyes and said quickly, "It's... a friend. He's visiting."
Her tone was steady. Too steady.
I nodded slowly. "Right. Of course."
The part of me that still remembered her scent, her laugh, her warmth - that part took a quiet step back.
Because seeing her like this - alive, radiant, messy, moved on - was worse than every sleepless night combined.
She smiled faintly, polite but distant. "It's good to see you, Damian. Really."
I wanted to believe that.
"You too," I said, though the words tasted like ash.
She started to close the door, and for a second, I almost stopped her - almost said something stupid, something selfish.
But I didn't.
The door shut with a soft click.
I stood there a moment longer, staring at the wood, until I realized my hands were trembling.
When I finally turned to go, the hallway seemed colder.
Downstairs, I sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling - the same ceiling that separated me from her.
Of all the buildings in the city.
Of all the floors.
I laughed quietly to myself - the kind of laugh that wasn't really a laugh at all.
And above me, I heard faint footsteps again.
Two sets this time.
I closed my eyes.
Maybe this was the universe's way of reminding me that peace isn't something you find. It's something you learn to fake.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Not because of the noise.
But because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her - barefoot, flushed, wearing someone else's shirt.
And the sound of her voice when she said my name - quiet, surprised, soft - kept looping in my head like a song I couldn't stop listening to.
The next morning, a message pinged on my phone - a building notice from management:
"Reminder: Residents' social mixer - rooftop lounge, 8 PM tomorrow. Attendance encouraged."
I stared at it for a long time, a slow, bitter smile tugging at my lips.
Same building.
Same rooftop.
Same woman I'd spent half a year trying to forget.
And now, no way to avoid her.