Very Neighborly

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Pedro sat on the edge of the unmade bed in his new hotel room, staring at the half-empty suitcase still open on the floor. The A/C was blasting, but it didn't help much with the sticky July heat seeping through the window cracks. He was 28, and for the first time in years he felt properly unmoored. Like every single decision he has ever done was utterly stupid.

He'd left Rio two weeks ago. Quit the steady editing gig at the publishing house, good pay, boring routine, people who liked him enough but never really saw him or his potential . He'd saved enough to give New York a real shot. Freelance writing, maybe sell a book one day, live in a city where stories actually happened. At least that's what Sex In The City had promised him. But now, sitting here with burnt hotel coffee going cold in a paper cup, the whole thing felt like it could collapse any second.

Was this stupid? Leaving family, friends, the beach, Portuguese everywhere? He rubbed his face. His black curls were messy from the flight and the humidity. He still looked like himself in the mirror, olive skin, lean, brown eyes that always looked like they were drowning in honey, but he didn't feel like himself. Not yet.

His phone lit up. Trevor, the real estate guy friend from school Lucia swore by.

Trevor: found a good one. 138 Sullivan. 11am tomorrow. think you'll dig it.

Pedro exhaled. Okay. One step. The last five apartments Trevor had shown him were absolutely terrible, but he knew he would eventually find a hidden jewel.

He laced up his sneakers and went out anyway, needing to move. The Village was alive even mid-morning, cobblestone streets, brick buildings leaning into each other, trees throwing dappled shade on the sidewalks. He walked slow, taking it in. A street musician played saxophone near Washington Square Park; the notes floated lazy and golden. He bought an iced coffee from a cart and sat on a bench for a while, watching people: a guy sketching in a notebook, two old ladies arguing in Italian, kids chasing pigeons. It felt more familiar here, not physically similar to Rio, but it looked warmer than the rest of New York.

The next day he met Trevor in front of the building on Sullivan Street. Red brick, ivy crawling up one side, old-school fire escapes zigzagging like ladders to nowhere. It looked lived-in, not polished.

Trevor grinned, all Jersey vowels and preppy confidence. "This one's different, man. Trust me."

Inside smelled like old wood and something warm, like fresh dough. The elevator groaned all the way to five. When Trevor opened the apartment door, Pedro actually stopped.

High ceilings. Wide oak floors worn smooth in the traffic paths. The living room felt oversized in a good way, big reinforced couch, low sturdy coffee table, doorways noticeably wider. Kitchen counters a touch lower. Bathroom huge, shower like a small room.

Pedro turned in a slow circle. "This place is... built for giants."

Trevor laughed. "Yeah, previous tenant was a big guy. Like, really big. Around five fifty if the owner isn't exaggerating. Customized everything. Owner never bothered changing it back. The guy had paid with his money and he didn't feel like spending his hard earned dollars. Said it was solid."

Pedro peeked at the bedrooms, one perfect for a desk and books, the other with space around the bed. Light poured in. Rent was decent. Rent-controlled. Too good to be true.

Trevor handed him the lease. "Owner lives downstairs. Big corner unit. Kinda like two of these smooshed together. He owns the pizza shop a few buildings down the road."

As if on cue, there was a knock.

Trevor opened the door to reveal a thick-set man in his thirties, fair skin, silvering black hair slicked back, wearing a flour-dusted apron. His forearms were carved from marble, tattoos peeking from beneath the sleeves.

"You the new tenant?" he asked.

Pedro nodded. "Pedro Alencar. Pleasure."

"Giancarlo Moretti. I'm your landlord. And" he winked "your local pizza supplier. Though if you want free pizzas you better pay the rent diligently."

They shook hands. Giancarlo's grip was firm.

"I keep this place because I like it. Had it for years. It was my first apartment in the city, meet my wife here... I live downstairs now, my place is a double unit. More room for the kids, less stairs for fat old me..."

He looked Pedro up and down.

"You're in good shape," he said. "That's good. I should warn you though..."

Pedro raised an eyebrow.

Giancarlo chuckled. "People say this place is cursed.", he rubbed his big belly.

Trevor groaned. "Oh no, not this again."

Giancarlo leaned against the doorway. "Every guy who's lived here? Packed on serious weight. I did it, all the guys I rented the apartment to after I moved out...I mean serious. Like, different man in six months kind of thing."

Pedro laughed. "That won't be me."

"That's what they all say."

They all shared a chuckle, but Pedro couldn't help but notice the glint in Giancarlo's eye. Not a joke, at least not entirely.

They signed the lease. No curse was worth ignoring this god tier rent prices.

That night he moved his few boxes in. Books mostly, some clothes, laptop, notebooks full of half-finished stories. He didn't have much stuff. Always traveled light.

He went for a run after dark, earbuds in, heading toward the Hudson. Manhattan glowed gold at the edges, buildings catching the last sun. He passed open bar windows, garlic, beer, laughter, smelled weed and hot asphalt and river water. His legs felt strong, lungs full. He grinned into the dusk. Maybe this was going to work.

The apartment already felt more like his the next morning. He made coffee in the French press, showered in the giant bathroom, threw on shorts and a tee. Unpacked slowly, books on shelves by genre, laptop on the desk facing the window. By noon it smelled like home. How he missed his Granado candles, at least he found a Brazilian market that sold them.

Then the knocks started.

First came Jack from across the hall. Tall, chunky, fair skinned, civil engineer smile, holding a Tupperware and his little girl's hand.

"Hey, neighbor. Jack Collins. This is Kayla."

"Hi!" Kayla shoved a ribboned box forward. "Brownies! I helped."

Pedro crouched. "Hahaha thank you! You look like one of those Girl Scout from the movies.", he picked up the tray "Wow! These look amazing. Thank you."

She lit up. "I'm a Girl Scout!"

"Lucky guess," he said, winking.

Dolly appeared behind them, warm eyes, geography teacher energy, carrying a foil-covered dish. She was Jack's wife and Kayla's mother.

"Zucchini-sweet potato casserole. Nothing fancy, but it'll feed you for days."

Pedro took it. "You guys are too nice. I'm Pedro, by the way. From Brazil."

Jack nodded. "We heard. News travels fast around here."

Pedro blinked. "Already?"

Dolly smiled. "Small building. Big mouths."

Brianna slouched out last, pink-streaked hair, heavy eyeliner, hoodie. "Hey."

"Nice hair," Pedro said. "Looks very unique and cool. You must have a killer musical taste. Do you play any instruments?"

She looked surprised. "Thanks. Yeah, I play the guitar and the drums. You don't seem annoying."

Jack laughed. "That's basically a love letter from her."

They left with smiles. Pedro set the food down, shaking his head.

An hour later another knock. An older woman with silver curls and a floral dress, arms full of containers.

"Gertrude Miller, next door left. I wanted to give you a warm welcoming, I baked cookies, lemon squares, scones, banana bread."

Pedro took the stack, stunned. "You really didn't have to-"

"Nonsense. Feeding people is my love language. My husband was a chef; I handled the sweets. And now that my grandson moved out, I have no one to bake for."

A parrot squawked inside her place.

"Gertruuude!"

"That& apos;s Barnaby," she said. "Ignore his attitude."

She patted his arm. "You remind me of my grandson. Come by if you need anything. Sugar, flour... company."

Pedro thanked her until she waved him off.
Later, Daniel in scrubs, ophthalmology resident, runner's build, brought quinoa salad with chicken and mango.

"Daniel Whitetaker, ophthalmology resident, four doors down the hall," He smiled kindly as he handed him the plate, "I know it looks bad. Disgustingly healthy, I know. Gotta counterbalance the sugar tsunami on this floor." He laughed.

Pedro grinned. "Appreciate it. Pedro, freelance writer. Brazil."

"Welcome. If your eyes ever hurt from staring at screens too long, I'm your guy."

Afternoon dragged into evening. Pedro was typing, outlining some wellness influencer's book, when Tyler knocked. Retro Zelda shirt, rainbow socks, paper bag from Shake Shack.

"Nice to meet you, neighbor! I'm Tyler McGrawIT guy. Figured you needed real food after all the virtuous crap."

Double burger, fries, strawberry shake. Pedro laughed out loud.

"You're officially my favorite." Pedro laughed, "I'm officially done with casserole."

"Don't even get me started on those! When i moved in Dolly kept bringing me them!" Tyler leaned on the doorframe. "Tell me about Brazil. I have always wanted to visit, it sounds so cool... I don't know why would you move here... Like c'mon! Beaches? Caipirinhas? Girls in bikinis? Which were your favorites?"

Pedro smirked. "Most of the above. Not really a fan of girls in bikinis if you know what I mean. But mostly I miss the food. Feijoada, pão de queijo... real stuff."

"Man, that must be hard, I know a few Brazilian steakhouses, but I'm afraid if you go, you're gonna gain like twenty pounds just from nostalgia."

Pedro shrugged. "Worth it."

They talked about Zelda, Mario Kart, some Brazilian music, old kung fu flicks, bad freelance gigs. Tyler left with a fist bump.
Pedro's fridge was now ridiculous, casseroles, brownies, salad, burgers.

Then the last knock.

Giancarlo, landlord, pizza box in hand, apron still dusted with flour.

"First night tradition. On the house."

Pedro took it. The smell hit like a truck: basil, garlic, cheese.

"Thanks. Seriously."

Giancarlo gave him a long look. "Settling in?"

"Yeah. Everyone's been... unreal."

A slow nod. "That's how it goes here. Starts nice." He smirked. "Then the place works its magic."

Pedro raised an eyebrow. "The curse?"

Giancarlo chuckled, already walking away.

"Enjoy the pizza, amico."

Pedro shut the door, opened the box.
Pepperoni, mozzarella stretched perfect, crust golden and crisp.

He took a bite.

His eyes closed for a second.

Oh man.

This was trouble.

He sat on the big couch, laptop forgotten, and ate another slice. Then another.

"Just tonight," he muttered, sauce on his lip.
It wasn't just tonight.

Pedro leaned back on the big reinforced couch, the pizza box open on the coffee table like an invitation he couldn't ignore. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city drifting through the cracked window honks, a distant siren, someone laughing three floors down. He wiped sauce from his chin with the back of his hand and reached for his laptop.

The email had come in while he was still chewing the first slice. Subject line: Quick D&D campaign to write, Backstory Needed, $300 if you can turn it around tonight.

He laughed out loud, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings. "Dude, aren't you the DM? Isn't this your job?" he muttered to himself, shaking his head. But money was money, and his bank account was still adjusting to New York prices. He cracked his knuckles, opened a new doc, and fired back a quick reply.

Pedro: Sure thing. Traditional campaign? Give me the vibe, forgotten kingdom, ancient evil, classic heroes stuff?

Client (some guy named Eric): Exactly. Low fantasy, gritty. Just need the world lore, a few key NPCs with hooks, and a solid opening plot hook. 2-3 pages max. You got this?

Pedro: On it.

He grabbed another slice-pepperoni curling crisp at the edges-and started digging around online for inspiration. Old D&D forums, a couple wiki pages, some Reddit threads about classic modules. Nothing fancy, just enough to get the juices flowing. He took a slow sip of water, stretched his legs out across the couch, and began typing.

The kingdom of Eldor had stood for centuries, its stone walls worn smooth by wind and forgotten wars. Or some shit like that? Maybe now the crops were failing? Nah, too basic. The rivers running black at night, and villagers whispered about the Shadowed Crown buried beneath the ruins of Castle Veyr... yeah that's more like it.

He built it piece by piece, letting the ideas breathe. First the broad strokes: a dying king, a prophecy half-remembered, a rival baron who smiled too wide. Then the NPCs, slow and careful, like sketching faces he could almost see.

Old Marta the tavern keeper, missing three fingers from the last goblin raid, always sliding an extra ale to anyone who listens to her stories. She knows the secret tunnel out of town but won't say why unless you buy a round and give her extra coins.

Sir Garrick, the washed-up knight who drinks too much and talks about the dragon he once spared-now that dragon's eggs are hatching in the hills, and he's the only one who knows how to calm them.

Pedro paused, grabbed slice number four without thinking, and kept going. The words came easy tonight. The big couch made it comfortable, the apartment still smelled like fresh paint and warm dough. He shifted, feeling the waistband of his shorts dig in just a little, but he ignored it. Another bite.

Cheese pulling long and gooey.

By 11:47 p.m. he hit send.

Pedro: Done. Let me know if you want tweaks.

He stood up, walked to the window, and stared out at the dark street. Sullivan Street looked soft under the streetlights-trees rustling, a couple walking hand in hand, the faint glow from Giancarlo's pizzeria still open downstairs. He rubbed his stomach absently. Felt fuller than he expected.

His laptop dinged almost immediately.

Eric: Holy shit, dude. This is PERFECT. The NPCs feel alive. I'm stealing the tavern lady for sure. Sending payment now + tip for the speed. You saved my ass.

The PayPal notification popped up: $300 + $55.

Pedro grinned, fist-pumped the empty air like an idiot. "Nice."

He closed the laptop and finally looked at the pizza box.

Empty.

Not one slice left. Not even a crust. Just grease stains and a few stray pepperonis stuck to the cardboard.

He stared for a second, then laughed, half embarrassed, half shocked. "Jesus, Pedro. You absolute pig." His face warmed. He'd been so in the zone he hadn't even noticed.

The box was sitting there like evidence. He poked at the empty corner, feeling the slight bloat in his belly pressing against his shirt. Back in Rio he'd run five miles a day and barely touched carbs after 8 p.m. Now? A few nights in New York and he'd demolished a whole large pizza like it was nothing.

He wandered into the kitchen, fridge light spilling out when he opened it. The brownies from Kayla sat right on the middle shelf, still wrapped in green ribbon. They smelled chocolatey even through the plastic.

He told himself no. He really did. But his hand was already reaching.

"Just one," he whispered, peeling back the foil. "You earned it. Big paycheck night."

The brownie was dense and fudgy, still a little warm from when Dolly baked it. He took a big bite standing right there in front of the open fridge, crumbs falling on his shirt. It tasted like pure comfort, walnuts, maybe a hint of vanilla.

He felt ridiculous. Full, almost uncomfortably so, shirt riding up just a bit over his stomach, yet he was already breaking off another chunk.

"Man, you're really doing this, fucking pig. We will run 20 km tomorrow for punishment. " he muttered to himself, mouth full. He leaned against the counter, chewing slower now, savoring it. The apartment felt cozy around him, the neighbors' gifts stacked like trophies on the shelves. Outside, a car horn beeped softly.

Somewhere down the hall, he heard Gertrude's parrot give one sleepy squawk.
Pedro smiled around the chocolate. Yeah. He was gonna be okay here. Maybe a little softer around the edges than he planned, but okay.

He took one more small bite of brownie, licked his fingers, and decided the rest could wait till morning.

Probably.

It didn't.