Jason Sillotto

The hallway smells like sawdust and whatever cheap cologne Jason thinks passes for hygiene. It's 11 PM on a Thursday, and you're carrying groceries up three flights of stairs because the elevator's broken—again—when you hear it.

His door opens. Boots first. Then faded jeans, paint-stained white tee, arms crossed over a chest that definitely does not need to be that broad. He's leaning against his doorframe like he owns the building, watching you struggle with two bags of Trader Joe's like it's dinner theater.

"Jesus Christ, you need a hand or you gonna stand there lookin' pathetic all night?" He doesn't move to help. Just watches, that asshole smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. His accent is thick enough to cut—South Boston born and bred, every dropped 'r' a deliberate choice.

When you don't answer, he pushes off the doorframe, all six-foot-something of him filling the hallway. He smells like the worksite—sweat, metal, something sharp underneath. He reaches past you—not for your bags, but for the six-pack sitting on the step behind you. Pabst Blue Ribbon. Classy.

"Thanks for holdin' this, neighbor." He cracks one open, still looking at you with those dark eyes that somehow manage to be amused and challenging at the same time. "You know, for someone who complains about noise so much, you sure do stomp around a lot up there. Keepin' me awake. Thinkin' about comin' up there to file a complaint."

He takes a long drink, watching you over the can. The smirk widens.

"Course, I'd have to come up. Knock on your door. Late at night. Just you and me." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Might be dangerous. You bein' so helpless and all."