After his workout, Killian returned to the third floor to find that a few of the laundry machines were mercifully available. He could easily go a few more days without needing to run a load, but with the abysmal laundry situation in this otherwise excellent complex, it was never a bad idea to do laundry earlier than necessary. He hurried to his flat for his hamper, noting along the way that the envelope he'd slid under his neighbor's doormat was now missing.

He knew it wasn't physically possible for his stomach to perform a flip, but it certainly felt as though it were doing exactly that.

As he finished loading a washing machine, he heard the door to the laundry room swing open, and before he could turn to see who had entered, he heard an irritated and very pronounced groan. He turned to find Swan dressed in bulky gray sweats, carrying her own very full laundry basket, and looking a little embarrassed.

Had she read the letter? Did she know that he'd left it? She wasn't saying anything. Just in case, he smiled reassuringly at her. Her cheeks turned pink, but she remained silent as she walked up to the last free machine and began loading it. He turned back to his task, his heart thudding in his chest. It was almost enjoyable, being in the same room with her, knowing that she had just read (or was about to read) a message from him. Would she guess it was him? Would she reply right away?

On Tuesday, it occurred to him that she might not reply at all. Every opportunity he had to leave his flat and walk by hers, he'd pass by and see nothing underneath her doormat. By the time he left for work Wednesday morning, he resolved to give her until the end of the week, and then give up. Not on her, but on the plan: he would simply introduce himself face to face, explain that he'd left the note, ask her out properly, and hope for the best.

He was not a coward.

But Wednesday when he returned from work, there was something yellow peeking out from underneath the doormat.

Glancing around to make sure he was alone in the hallway (he had no intention of turning into the creepy neighbor who lurked around other people's doors), he quickly strode over to get a better look. It was a single sheet of folded paper from a yellow legal pad, and it had no visible writing. Was it meant for him? He pulled it out from under the mat and unfolded it.

As good as any Monday could ever be. Like any normal human, I live for the weekend.

Isn't this a little bit middle school?

He chuckled at the barb. But she'd replied. She'd actually replied. He rushed to his own door and nearly dropped his key trying to get into his flat. She'd replied.

He quickly got his laptop open; it was much easier to reply to her message than it had been to come up with the first one he'd left. Even with such a short message, he could practically taste her personality—or at least, the sarcasm and slightly raised eyebrow were apparent.

I'm a little disappointed to hear that my first note didn't brighten your Monday, but I suppose that brightening any Monday might be an impossible task, even for someone as charming as I am. As for the maturity of this method of interaction, I assure you that I am, in fact, not in middle school. Certainly, absolutely not in middle school. This is simply an enjoyable way to contact you and let you know of my affections.

Eagerly awaiting your reply,
Your secret admirer

Once it was printed, he stuffed it in an envelope as he had before—the consistency was important, he reasoned, as it counted towards presentation—and poked his head into the hallway. Convinced that the coast was clear, he left the new note under her doormat.

His phone rang once he returned to his flat. He glanced at the caller ID and sighed. "Jefferson," he said coolly as he answered.

"Hey, buddy," Jefferson said, elongating the first word long enough that Killian knew exactly why he was calling. "How's it going?"

"Can you clarify the terms of our dare for me?" he asked, cutting to the chase.

"You're absolutely no fun, Killian. You have to ask her out. That's it."

"Define asking her out."

"I'm not a damn lawyer. I own a hat shop."

"So as a small business owner, you are entirely capable of dealing with bureaucracy and fine print. Let's have it, mate."

"You have to speak to her in a manner that makes clear your romantic intentions."

Promising. "Would the written word suffice, or must it be verbal?"

"That's context dependent," Jefferson said. "For example, if you were to strike up a conversation with her and get her number, but in a platonic way, but then you texted her to ask her on a date? That would fulfill the terms."

"But?"

"God, Killian, I don't know. What did you do exactly?"

"I explicitly let her know of my affections."

"How?"

He rolled his eyes. "A note."

"Is this middle school?"

He briefly wondered if Jefferson was in cahoots with Swan. "Well?"

"Does she know it's from you?"

"No," he admitted.

"Doesn't count then."

"Oi, come on, mate." He reached over to turn on the oven before questioning whether or not he'd have much of an appetite after the conversation. Then again, he'd missed lunch; he turned it on.

"Sorry, Killian. You've got to ask her out, and she has to know it's you."

"Fine."

"Gotta go—Grace needs help with her homework assignment."

"Tell her Uncle Killian says hi."

"Will do."

He supposed, as he prepared dinner, that Jefferson was right. In terms of the dare, anonymous letters were a cop out. But should it even matter? He might have only committed to asking her out as per those terms, but while Jefferson seemed to only intend for him to fulfill the dare and nothing more, Killian had never intended on nothing more. It was time to see if his heart still worked. And asking someone out was a first step.

If things didn't fall apart immediately, he would eventually fulfill the terms of the dare and ask her on a proper date. It was only a matter of time.

He spotted the reply note as he left for work the next morning; it was a struggle to refrain from reading it on the T, but the most he could ever do on the train in the morning was stand awkwardly, clutch at the nearest pole or bar, and maybe swipe through the news on his phone. Besides, he wasn't sure he wanted to read her response in public; waiting until he was safely behind his desk, with his office door closed, was the best course of action.

Well, aren't you a weird one. A grown adult who announces their crush through anonymous messages? The only way to make this better would be to ask, "Do you like me?" and have checkboxes for "Yes," "No," and "Maybe."

But you're clearly persistent. What should I call you? "Secret admirer?" I need something to call you when I gossip to my friends that I'm the luckiest gal in school.

There it was again: her dry wit. He imagined, based on their limited interactions, that her voice was naturally low, and that her genuine smiles were harder to come by than her smirks.

But more than that, he could feel the same walls he knew he had around his own heart. By all accounts, she was mocking him: the short missive hinged mainly on the criticism that the method of interaction was incredibly puerile. The question of how to address him was phrased sarcastically and shifted the desire for knowledge from herself to her friends. But if she truly felt that he was too persistent, immature, or inappropriate, she could have simply stopped replying entirely, or explicitly asked him to leave her alone. It was as though she enjoyed the attention, but that she was incapable of simply saying so.

But she was also challenging him. By insinuating that he was a schoolboy, she was instilling the urge to admit he was an attorney. The request for a name read as a request for his real name, and even then, it felt more like a demand than a request.

Fascinating. He typed his reply over lunch.

My dear, you should call me whatever you'd like. I'd like to think of myself as a rather dashing rapscallion, but I understand if you think that seems like an odd choice for a nickname. I'd reveal my name to you, but you strike me as the investigative type, and I'd prefer to keep some semblance of anonymity for now.

I look forward to your next correspondence. I suppose it's all right if my messages don't bring a smile to your face; yours certainly bring a smile to mine.

Very, very much yours,
Your secret admirer (dashing rapscallion, perhaps?)

However, even if he was resisting most of her attempts to challenge him, he couldn't resist all of them. He quickly typed "Do you like me?" before adding and spacing out, "Yes," "No," and "Maybe," and hand-drew the corresponding boxes (he still needed a ruler to do so; why couldn't the accident have affected his non-dominant hand?).

He wouldn't say no to "dashing rapscallion" as a nickname, as long as the odds were that she'd use it.

He slipped the note under her doormat when he returned home, but before he could settle in and cook dinner, there was a text from Jefferson. world series tonight, my place, grahams bringing beer.

He replied. Is Belle in or out?

she's in, grace demanded it.

He laughed. Sounds lovely. I'll be there in an hour. Baseball would be a satisfactory distraction (he wasn't opposed to watching the American League win), and he wanted to see Grace. He'd barely had time to see her since the school year started, especially since she spent every other weekend at her grandparents' house.

To his surprise, as he was about to exit the building and head for the train, he was nearly knocked completely off his feet by Swan. She barely glanced at him and let out a quick, breathless, "Sorry," before making a beeline for the elevator.

"You all right?" Sidney, the weekday doorman, asked. "She almost floored you."

"I'm fine, mate," he replied, resisting the urge to quip that she'd floored him a year ago. "Didn't even fall. Have a good night!"

He felt a little sheepish; would he be irritated if it had been someone else running him over? Was he just feeling forgiving because it was her, and he didn't have it in him to be annoyed at the woman he was interested in romantically? But it didn't matter.

The ballgame was enjoyable, at least. All three of his friends refrained from commenting on his situation with Swan, Grace proudly showed off the diorama she'd made for a class project, and while the game was still exciting, it wasn't close enough to be stressful to watch.

Grace was also adamant that they all join her and Jefferson on Saturday, before he took her trick-or-treating. "I promised we'd go apple picking and it's almost the end of the season," Jefferson said apologetically. "And the place is having some fun Halloween events, too."

"Of course we'll come," Belle said warmly, although Killian privately wished his opinion had been consulted on the matter. It's not as though he was reluctant to spend time with Grace, but he'd hoped to spend some time Saturday going through some of his casework, and with the driving time to the nearest orchard, it meant he'd be giving up his whole day. But when Jefferson made it clear that no one had to wear a costume, and Graham volunteered to drive so they could take two cars, he resolved to go and make the best of the situation (and perhaps surreptitiously convince Graham to call it a day early).

And so it wasn't until he returned to the building, late Saturday afternoon, carrying a bag heavy with Honeycrisp and McIntosh apples in one hand and a medium sized pumpkin in the other, that he finally picked up the yellow lined reply tucked under her doormat. He'd spotted it on his way out in the morning, but he'd balked at the idea of reading it in front of his friends, or, worse, losing it along the way.

Well, since I'm currently eating Cap'n Crunch, I think I'll call you Captain. How does that sound? Or are you secretly/not-so-secretly devastated that I'm not nicknaming you "dashing rapscallion?" Be honest. I'll know if you're lying.

Perhaps this is an unbelievably awkward question, but it's probably more awkward for you, so: you never address me properly. Do you even know my name? So called "admirer?"

Underneath, she'd copied the boxes from his previous note; there was a clear checkmark in the "Maybe" box. It was better than he could have expected.

Had she truly been eating such dreck, or did she know about the Jolly Roger? He wasn't sure which he preferred; a woman with such terrible taste in breakfast foods might not be the best match for him after all. But really—did she know? If she didn't, it was the luckiest guess she could have made (besides nicknaming him "Lawyer" or something like that).

He felt a little anxious as he read the second paragraph; perhaps he would wait until tomorrow to cook the pumpkin. She really was the investigative type, clearly: she'd sussed out the fact that he didn't know her first name.

But if she was challenging him, it wasn't with the expectation that he'd back off. She'd checked "Maybe." She might be waiting for more before she could admit her interest.

He grabbed his laptop. True, he didn't know her first name, but he'd be damned if he was going to be the only one with a nickname.

I happily accept this new nickname, and I shall insist upon being addressed as such. If you don't follow through, I shall have to correct you.

I shall tell the truth, as I always do: as I am a tenant in this building, I've discerned your surname from your mailbox. I'm quite perceptive. You, however, seem rather unimpressed and—dare I say it?—a tad offended at the idea that I might not know your name. Granted, I don't, as I see no benefits to be had by stalking you. But since you seem so aggrieved at the mere notion that I should fancy a woman whose name I do not know, I shall have to give you a nickname of my own. How about Princess? Like, Swan Princess? Get it? As you can see, I'm incredibly clever.

I'm going to pretend that I'm not judging you heavily for your eating habits. Have you tried cereal that doesn't tear your mouth to shreds? Or does the metallic taste of blood make the cereal more palatable?

He paused. He'd intended to end the missive there, hoping that the nickname and the questions regarding her cereal-related judgment might be enough to keep her interested. But he glanced over at her "Maybe." Perhaps her indecision had less to do with her own pride and more to do with the overnight bag.

Finally, you had an awkward question for me, which I have happily answered for you. So now, if you could possibly answer an awkward question: Are you, for lack of a better term, available? Is this poor captain pining after a woman whose heart belongs to another? I'd like to believe that you are indeed unattached, seeing as you've been replying to my letters thus far. And I am a man who is not often wrong. But then again, your "Maybe" in your earlier missive was difficult to analyze. So, if you are indeed spoken for, then I hope Your Highness will please accept my humblest apologies, and forgive me these transgressions.

Eagerly/nervously anticipating your response,
Your Captain

Checking the hallway quickly, he slipped the note under the mat and returned to his flat. If he was going to spend Sunday baking, he'd need his pumpkin puree ready, and the gourd wasn't going to cook itself.

Thank you all so much for the awesome response so far, especially given that, well, y'all know how the story goes already. I've love to hear your feedback on how you think Killian's point of view is going so far! I've tried to involve as little copying/pasting as possible besides the letters, throughout the whole story.