Brett made a point on not actually being a 'nice neighbour'. He kept to himself, he didn't cause trouble, he didn't get in anyone's way. Still, he wasn't interested in making himself liked either. He was quite happy with letting the 'asshole' moniker stick. No expectations, no friendships, nobody getting too close.
The problem with all of that, when it got right down to it, was Brett himself. Time and experience might have - in some respects quite literally - burned his softer side out, but he was still the guy that went back to rescue people. Still the guy who had grown up with dreams of being a cop. It was just now buried under layer upon layer of hurt and anger. The spark smothered, but not quite dead yet.
He was no hero, not any more, but he couldn't quite allow himself to walk on by. Which was why he'd fixed the girl's door when she wasn't around. He couldn't bring himself to let her linger, unsafe and insecure. And heaven knew, half the people round here didn't have the spare money for a decent locksmith. So, he'd just fixed it. Left all the keys for her. Walked away.
Sure, he'd kept a weather eye on her since then. Surveillance was something he'd been taught, but clearly he'd got rusty - something he hadn't caught onto until the moment that she called him on it. Or, tried to. He figured he'd call her bluff, see what reaction he got.
"I look like the good Samaritan?" His answer drifted across the air and he wished he had a beer in hand. Nonchalance was always easier to pull off when you had a beer.