Vampire Next Door ⋆⟡⋆ Miguel O'Hara x reader

Ch. 6 Noise Complaints *ੈ

He's catching his breath, and trying to hide it. He's got a jacket pulled over, which you know he's just using to cover up the sweaty mess underneath. His cheeks are pink, he's got a bruise on his jaw. The red in his eyes looks brighter than it did earlier.

You can't see much besides that. From the little that you can see, his apartment is dark. Cold air escapes his place and greets your face.

He looks angry, and it throws you off.

"Y/N, I'm in the middle of something. I thought you had some sort of emergency. Go to fucking bed," he says through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, middle of who is the real question," you mutter, leaning to your side to sneak a peek inside his apartment. He's far too tall for you to look over his shoulder, and his build blocks any chance of you seeing what's happening behind him. You catch a glimpse of the kitchen floor. There's porcelain shattered across the floor. It's all you can see.

"What the fuck are you doing in there?" you ask, slowly.

He closes the door up a bit more, and runs a hand through his hair.

"I–"

"What happened to your friend's dog?"

"Oh my god. I'll be quiet, okay? Talk tomorrow morning. This conversation is over."

He slams the door.

"Fuck you too then," you mutter, hitting the door.

Your stomach disobeys you, excitedly jumping at the thought of the talk that he's scheduled for "tomorrow morning."

You walk back inside of your apartment, then look into the peep hole at Miguel's door.

You need sleep.

* * * *

You're too depressed to eat. Your stomach growls, but your chest hurts. Your mug sits on your side table, as you lay on your side staring at it, thinking of the past.

Then the noise starts again.

This time, it's more than thumps. You hear meddling in drawers, and the slamming of cabinets.

You wait for it to stop.

It doesn't.

You sigh then get up to go scold your neighbor once again.

"What do you want?"

"You're loud, Miguel. I'm trying to sleep,"

"And I'm trying to ... box. Practice boxing,"

"At four in the morning? Please,"

"I'm boxing!" he reasons, a whine in his voice, immature and defensive.

"But your bathroom is against my bathroom. Are you boxing in the shower?"

He drags his hand down his face.

"Okay, Y/N, I'll lower it down. Jesus. You're fucking needy."

"Needy?"

He crosses his arms, and tilts his head, looking down at you. He does that a lot.

He smirks, "I've dealt with you five times already, Y/N, and you've only been here two days."

You do the math.

"I've only seen you four."

His eyebrows knit together, he looks to the side, at nothing, then looks back at you, concern suddenly wiped from his face.