Stranger at Her Door

The knock came just after midnight. One short, deliberate sound. Then silence.

Maya froze on the couch, her fingers curled around the chipped rim of her teacup. The television was still on, murmuring some forgettable crime drama she hadn’t been watching. Her eyes stayed fixed on the front door. No second knock followed. No voice. No footsteps.

She waited. Her breath was shallow. Her skin prickled like it always did when something wasn’t right, though nothing in the apartment had moved. The night air hummed with stillness, thick and quiet and waiting.

He had moved in yesterday. The man in Apartment 3B.

She hadn’t seen him arrive, only heard the dragging of boxes and the occasional thud of furniture being shifted around. No music. No conversation. Just that slow, heavy presence through the wall that made her too aware of her own breathing. She’d asked the landlord who the new tenant was, and all he’d said was, “Keeps to himself. Paid six months in cash.”

Now he was outside her door.

Maya set the cup down carefully on the floor. It wobbled once and stilled. She stood and padded across the room, barefoot, her fingers ghosting over the light switch but not flipping it. She liked the dark. It felt safer than being seen.

She didn’t look through the peephole. She didn’t call out. Her hand hovered over the lock.

What do you want?

Her heart thudded once, twice, loud enough she could feel it in her throat. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he knocked on the wrong door. Maybe it wasn’t him at all.

But she knew it was.

Instead of opening it, she stepped back and waited. Nothing else happened. No footsteps. No retreat. Just that thick, pulsing silence between the door and her body.

And then she heard it.

The faintest scrape of shoes turning on the concrete outside. One step back. Then another. Then gone.

She didn’t move for a long time.

When she finally climbed into bed, she didn’t sleep.

The next morning, Maya went about her routine as if she hadn’t stood frozen for half the night with a stranger on the other side of her door. She dressed in loose jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt. She didn’t wear makeup, didn’t fix her curls, didn’t even bother with breakfast.

The hallway outside smelled like floor cleaner and old wood. The apartment across from hers had the blinds down, but through a small slit she saw a light flicker on. Then off. She didn’t stop walking.

At the mailboxes, she heard the elevator door open behind her and instinct made her glance back.

He was tall. Broad shoulders. Hands in the pockets of a black hoodie. His head was tilted slightly, watching her. Not with a smile or a greeting, just steady observation. His eyes were a strange gray, not pale, but flat, like slate under shadow. His face was sharp, handsome in a way that felt accidental, like someone had carved his features in a hurry and left no softness behind.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look away.

Maya’s pulse picked up.

She opened her mailbox even though it was empty and pretended to be busy. He walked past her, slow and quiet. He didn’t brush her shoulder or say hello. But she felt him as he passed. His presence was heavier than his footsteps.

Once the elevator doors shut again, she exhaled.

That night, she heard him again. Through the wall.

The apartment was thinly built. She could hear when someone opened a drawer or turned on the faucet. But tonight the sounds were different.

Breathing. Low. Controlled. Then something softer. A moan.

Maya sat up in bed, her back against the headboard, covers pulled tight around her. Her thighs pressed together. She told herself to ignore it, to put on music or plug in her headphones. But she didn’t.

She listened.

Another sound. A soft grunt. Then quiet again.

She let her eyes close. Her hand drifted to her stomach, then lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts. Her fingers moved slowly. Hesitantly. Her breath caught.

It had been a long time. Too long.

And it shouldn’t be this. Not to the sound of a stranger’s voice. Not to someone she hadn’t spoken to. Not to someone she couldn’t trust.

But her body didn’t care about any of that.

When she came, it was quiet. Shallow. Shameful. The kind that left a sting behind her eyelids.

She didn’t sleep again.

The next day was warm. The kind of dry heat that stuck to the skin and made clothes feel too tight.

Maya stopped at the store on her way home and picked up two things she didn’t need: wine she wouldn’t drink and a new pair of lace panties. Black. Delicate. Expensive.

When she got home, she took a long shower. She put on the new underwear and nothing else, curling into bed with the window open, the air sticky against her skin.

Just past midnight, she unlocked the door and left it open. Only an inch.

She climbed back into bed and faced the door. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Her mouth was dry.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Then it happened. The door creaked open. Just a little.

Footsteps crossed the floor, slow and careful. She could feel him before she saw him. That same heavy presence, that silence that wasn’t really silent.

He didn’t speak.

He just stood there.

Maya’s heart thundered against her ribs.

She didn’t move. Didn’t ask him why. Didn’t ask how.

She only whispered one thing.

“Close the door behind you.”

And he did.