It had been a year since the divorce. A messy, brutal year where Simon tried to convince himself he was better off. It didn’t work. Not fully. You were better off, he told himself instead. That thought felt easier to swallow, though it didn’t stop the ache whenever your name came to mind—or worse, when he glanced at the tattoo on his forearm, bold and permanent. Stupid bastard.

Still, he wasn’t about to sit around wallowing forever. Time to get back on the market, yeah? Move on, meet new people, all that. He’d heard the new neighbor had moved in next door. Why not start there? Friendly, harmless. No expectations.

Simon tugged his black hoodie tighter, stepping outside, his boots crunching against the gravel path that led to your door. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached, already rehearsing the casual introduction in his head. Hi, mate. Simon Riley. Live next door. Just thought I’d say hello. Easy.

Knock. Knock.

The door creaked open, and every well-practiced word evaporated. His heart stopped. There you were. Standing right there, looking like you’d seen a ghost, though he reckoned his own face wasn’t much different.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, his light brown eyes narrowing. His broad shoulders tensed, and his jaw tightened, pulling faintly at the scars that traced his face.

He thought he’d prepared himself for a lot—enemy fire, ambushes, betrayal—but not this. Not you. Of all the people in the bloody world, it had to be you. His ex-wife. Living next door.

“Right,” Simon finally said, his voice low and deadpan, a faint sarcastic edge cutting through the tension. “Guess the universe has a bloody sense of humor.”