Midnight Heat

Maya’s POV

Midnight is rude.

It removes logic. It removes fear. It removes clothing in your imagination before you can stop it. And unfortunately, my imagination has a favorite victim.

My next door neighbor is tall, unfairly attractive, and has the kind of voice that could convince a nun to sin without even raising his tine

My name is Maya Collins. I am nineteen. I am supposed to be focused on saving my family business, finishing university, and behaving like a responsible adult.

Instead, I might be losing my mind over a man who looks at me like I am both a mistake and a temptation. And I am not sure which one I want to be.

I have very important rules.

Rule number one: Do not think about him after 10 p.m.

Rule number two: Do not stand on the balcony in thin sleep dresses when you know he sometimes works late.

Rule number three: Do not imagine what his hands would feel like on your waist.

I break all three rules daily. Tonight, I am breaking them again. I stand in front of my mirror, brushing my hair, pretending I do not care that the wall between our apartments is very thin.

What if he can hear my music? What if he can hear me pacing? What if he can hear my thoughts? Stop it, Maya.

He probably drinks black coffee and reads serious emails at night. He is not thinking about you. Right?

I walked into the kitchen to get water, wearing an oversized shirt that falls softly against my thighs. It is not short or revealing, just comfortable enough to make me forget that I live next door to temptation. I do not think about how the fabric moves when I walk.

The lights flicker once, then again, and suddenly the entire apartment fell into darkness.

“Perfect timing,” I mutter under my breath.

I moved carefully toward the door, hoping the hallway still has power. When I opened it, dim light greets me, and relief washed over me for half a second. I step out without thinking too much.

That is when my door swung shut behind me with a loud click that echoes in the hallway.

I stare at it, my stomach dropping as I grab the handle and twist. My keys are inside on the small table near the couch. I close my eyes and take a slow breath, trying not to panic over something so stupid.

“This cannot be happening,” I whisper. A deep voice behind me breaks the quiet.

“Locked yourself out?” My body stiffened before I even turn around. I know that voice too well.

Liam stands a few steps away, leaning slightly against the wall as if he has been there long enough to enjoy the scene. His black shirt fits too well across his shoulders, and his sleeves are rolled up just enough to show his forearms. His hair looks slightly messy, as if he ran his fingers through it without caring.

I managed a calm expression even though my heart is misbehaving. “Maybe,” I reply.

His eyes move over me once, slowly, not in a crude way but in a way that makes me feel seen. Heat climbs up my neck under that quiet inspection.

“You need help,” he says, his tone steady and unreadable.

“I can handle it,” I answer, even though I am standing barefoot in a hallway at midnight wearing nothing but a thin shirt.

His gaze drops briefly to my feet before returning to my face, and I suddenly become very aware of how exposed I must look.

“You are not exactly prepared for emergencies,” he commented. I try to sound confident. “I only stepped out for air.”

“At this hour,” he asks softly, “and dressed like that?”

The way he said it made my stomach tighten. I crossed my arms without thinking, wishing I had worn something thicker.

“It is just a shirt,” I defend.

“I noticed.”

There is no judgment in his voice, only quiet observation, and somehow that felt worse.

He stepped closer, not enough to trap me, but enough to change the air between us.

“Does your balcony door stay unlocked,” he asked after a moment. I narrowed my eyes. “Why would that matter.”

“I could climb across from mine and unlock your door from inside,” he says calmly, as if he is suggesting something completely normal.

I stare at him, unsure whether to laugh or argue. The idea sounds reckless and impressive at the same time.

“You could fall,” I say. “I would not,” he answered without hesitation.

The confidence in his voice made something inside me shift. He does not brag. He simply stated facts like he believes them completely.

I hesitate only for a second before giving in. Calling the landlord would take forever, and standing in the hallway like this feels worse by the minute.

“Fine,” I said quietly.

He nodded once and walked toward the stairs with controlled steps. I watch him go, noticing the steady way he moved, like someone who always knows where he is going.

A few minutes later, I heard the faint sound of my balcony door sliding open from inside my apartment. Soon after, my front door unlocked.

He stood there holding it open, moonlight outlining his figure. “After you,” he says.

I walked past him quickly, feeling both grateful and self conscious.

“You should keep a spare key somewhere safe,” he said as he stepped inside and closed the door. “I did not plan on being dramatic tonight,” I replied, trying to hide my embarrassment.

A small hint of amusement appeared in his eyes. “You seem to attract dramatic situations.”

I let out a soft laugh, surprised at how natural it feels. The tension shifts slightly, becoming warmer instead of awkward. We stand facing each other in the dim room. The silence was no longer uncomfortable. It felt charged.

“You could have hurt yourself,” I said, suddenly imagining him slipping from one balcony to another. “I would not attempt something I could not handle,” he answered.

The way he said it makes me think he is not only talking about climbing.

His gaze drifted slowly to my mouth, and I felt my pulse quicken. The space between us felt smaller even though neither of us moved.

“And what else can you handle,” I asked before I can stop myself. The words hung between us, heavier than I expected.

His eyes lift to mine, darker now, more careful. “You should not ask questions like that,” he says quietly.

“Why,” I whisper. “Because I might give you an answer you are not ready for.”

My breath became uneven, and I hate how easily he can see through me.

He reached out slowly and brushed his fingers against my wrist, not gripping, just touching. The contact is light, but it sends warmth rushing up my arm. My body reacted before my mind could decide how to behave. “You are shaking,” he murmurs.

“It is cold,” I said, though the room does not feel cold at all.

His thumb rested lightly against my pulse as if he can measure the effect he has on me.

A faint smile touched his lips. “Yes,” he agreed. At that exact moment, I was already wet.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, his voice returning to its usual calm tone.

I nodded even though my skin still feels warm where he touched me. He walked to the door and paused before leaving. When he looked at me again, his expression is different, more serious.

“Do not stand outside like that again,” he said. “Like what,” I asked quietly.

He looked at me one last time. “Like you are asking to be wanted.”