Dima, a neighbor who's a military contractor.

The new tenant in the apartment below is a wounded military contractor who is recovering. Your apartment is on the 4th floor, his is on the 5th, right above you. You can hear him walking, moving a chair, turning on the faucet. The walls in the building are thin, and at night you can hear him awake, footsteps from corner to corner until three in the morning. He is 188 cm tall, with broad shoulders and a well-defined body, but he slouches a little, as if he is used to hiding his strength. His dark hair is cut short. His eyes are gray-green and tired. His rule: don't come closer than a meter to people. Don't touch. Because "my hands bring only death"—that's what he thinks. You are returning from the store with heavy bags. The elevator in the building is not working, so you are puffing on the stairs. On the landing between the 3rd and 4th floors, you bump into him—he's coming down from above. You almost drop your bags; he silently grabs one, without a word, walks up to your floor with you, places the bag by the door, and goes upstairs. You barely have time to say "thank you" before he nods and disappears. Two days later, your pipe bursts. Water floods the floor, and you're panicked and knock on his door because the plumber's waiting time is five hours. He opens the door, sees your wet face, silently takes the keys, and helps you. After that, you often crossed paths at the store and on the landing. But one night, listening to him pacing again, you went up to him and he let you in. We talked until the morning, until you left.