Eleven p.m.

The world outside had dissolved into the muted gray of a city asleep, but inside Iris’s headphones, the universe was rich, deep, and terrifyingly intimate. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling of her studio apartment, the tangled wire of her headset coiled across her chest like a lifeline.

"You’re quiet tonight," the voice said.

It wasn't just a voice. It was a physical weight, a low frequency that vibrated against her eardrums and traveled straight down her spine. *L*. He spoke in the lower registers, a rumble of dark honey and gravel that made her toes curl into the sheets.

"Just thinking," Iris murmured, turning onto her side and pulling the duvet up to her nose. "My editor made me redraw the arm on that character three times. *Three times*, L. Apparently, the angle of the elbow was 'anatomically offensive'."

A low, breathy chuckle filled her ears. It was a dangerous sound, warm and rough at the edges.

"They don't deserve you," L said. The way he enunciated the words—slow, deliberate—made the compliment feel like a caress. "They look at lines and shapes. They don't see the soul you pour into the ink. It’s their loss, Iris. Not yours."

Iris closed her eyes, letting the darkness of the room swallow her. *God, he’s perfect.*

It had been three months since she swiped right on a blank profile picture simply because his bio quoted obscure sci-fi poetry. Three months of voice calls that started at ten and stretched until the early hours of the morning. She didn't know the color of his eyes, the cut of his jaw, or if he was tall enough to lean down to kiss her. But she knew the rhythm of his breathing. She knew he drank black coffee at midnight and switched to whiskey at two.

He was her digital phantom, the only man who had ever made her feel exposed without even seeing her face.

When her anxiety spiked at 3:00 a.m., he would stay on the line, humming a tune so low it was barely audible, until her heart stopped hammering against her ribs. When she mentioned offhand that she craved salt and vinegar chips, a delivery arrived at her door an hour later—no note, just the bag.

He was an addiction she didn't want to cure.

"Are you still there?" L’s voice cut through her reverie. There was a shift in his tone—a sudden drop in pitch, a gravity that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"I'm here," Iris whispered. Her thumb traced the edge of her phone screen. "Just... tired of the screen. Tired of imagining."

Silence stretched between them. It wasn't empty; it was thick, charged with static and unspoken intent. She could hear the faint sound of him shifting, the creak of a chair, the intake of breath.

"Iris."

Her name on his tongue sounded like a secret.

"Yes?"

"Let's meet."

The words hit her like a physical blow—a sudden, sharp intake of oxygen in a vacuum. Her eyes snapped open. She sat up, the duvet falling away from her shoulders, clutching the phone tighter.

"What?" Her heart did a frantic, traitorous flip in her chest.

"Tomorrow," he said. The hesitation was gone, replaced by a firm, decisive heat. "I'm done with only hearing you. I want to see you."

The air in the room seemed to thin. A meeting. Reality crashing into her perfect, curated fantasy. What if he was disappointed? What if the magic broke the moment their eyes met? But the desire in his voice was contagious, a current jumping the gap from his world to hers.

"Really?" Her voice was small, trembling.

"Really," he confirmed, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like his lips were brushing the shell of her ear. "Say yes."

It was a command, wrapped in velvet.

"Yes," she breathed out. "Okay. Tomorrow."

"Good." The satisfaction in his tone was palpable. "Sleep now, Iris. You’ll need your energy."

The line clicked dead.

Iris slowly lowered the phone, staring at the black screen. Her reflection stared back—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, a smile threatening to split her face in two. *Tomorrow.* She was going to see him. She was finally going to put a face to the voice that had haunted her dreams for ninety days.

She flopped back onto the pillows, burying her face in the mattress to muffle a squeal of pure, unadulterated joy. She kicked her legs, tangling them in the sheets, her mind racing with a thousand possibilities. He would be tall. He would have dark eyes. He would look at her the way he spoke to her—with that intense, consuming focus.

*Thud. Thud. Thud.*

The sound was sharp, aggressive, and coming directly from the wall behind her head.

Iris froze. Her smile vanished, replaced by a scowl.

*Thud. Thud!*

"Keep it down!" A muffled, angry male voice shouted through the thin plaster. "Some of us have jobs in the morning!"

The Neighbor.

Iris rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. Of course. The universe couldn't just give her a perfect moment; it had to balance the scales with the grumpy, fun-killing sadist who lived in 4B. He had probably heard her squeal. He heard everything.

"Get a life!" she shouted back at the wall, though she kept her voice significantly lower than his.

She grabbed a pillow and pulled it over her head, blocking out the rude intrusion of reality. Let him knock. Let him complain. Tonight, nothing could touch her.

Tomorrow, she was meeting L.

And in the dark, silent apartment, Iris Chen fell asleep with a smile on her lips, blissfully unaware that the man of her dreams and the man banging on her wall were separated by nothing but six inches of plaster and a very cruel twist of fate.

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