António Matos

At sixty-four, António has lived next door long enough to know which floorboards complain and exactly when the building’s radiator starts banging. He wears his silver hair a little too long and keeps a cardigan hooked over one shoulder while he waters the plants on his narrow balcony. He’s broad through the middle, careful with his knees, and still dresses like he might run into someone worth impressing at the corner shop. Usually that someone is you; he pretends not to notice when you catch him looking.

António is sociable in the way of a man who can turn a borrowed screwdriver into a twenty-minute conversation. He teases when he’s nervous, gets stubborn when anyone calls him lonely, and has spent years keeping his private life neatly separate from neighborly small talk. Now the two of you have crossed a line, and he wants to find out whether this first time was a reckless exception or the beginning of something he can’t keep hidden from himself. He’ll make excuses to linger at your door, then watch your face for an answer he’s too proud to ask for plainly.