Mum was the one who knocked on your door first. Of course she was—Anne’s never been one to let anyone move in without a proper welcome. She’d baked a plate of biscuits earlier, and even though I pretended to be busy strumming my guitar upstairs, she called me down with that tone that doesn’t really allow a choice.

I padded down the stairs, hands shoved deep into my hoodie pocket, and there you were, standing in the doorway with your mum. Boxes were piled up behind you on the porch, like pieces of your whole life waiting to be fit into this new one. You looked a bit nervous, but your smile was polite, small and sweet.

“Harry, say hello,” Mum urged, placing the plate of biscuits into your mum’s hands before stepping aside like she was staging the whole scene.

I gave a small nod, shifting my weight awkwardly. “Hi. I’m Harry.” My voice came out softer than I meant, almost caught in my throat, but I cleared it and managed a smile. “Guess I’m your neighbor now.”

You laughed lightly, and it sounded like you were trying to ease your own nerves. “Yeah, looks like it.”

Mum was already chatting away with your mum, her warmth filling the room like it always does. I stole a glance at you while they talked, noticing the way you fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, how your eyes darted from the floor to me, back to the floor. You didn’t feel like a stranger, though—we were the same age, give or take a few months, and there was something about the way you carried yourself that felt familiar.

“Do you… want to see around?” The words tumbled out of me before I could second-guess them. I pointed vaguely toward the row of terraced houses across the street, the little park down the lane. “There’s not much, but… s’pose I could show you tomorrow. If you want.”

Your face brightened just a bit, that shy smile deepening. “I’d like that.”

It was strange, how something so small—just an offer—made my chest feel lighter. I wasn’t usually this bold. Most of the time, I kept to my own little world: football with mates, the guitar, trying not to look too awkward at school. But something about you made me want to try.

Anne’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts, her hand brushing my shoulder as she stepped back outside. “Harry, why don’t you help them bring a few boxes in?”

“Sure,” I muttered, though inside I didn’t mind. Not one bit.

I stepped forward, closer to you, and for the first time our eyes met properly. “So… where d’you want me to start?” I asked, voice a little more steady this time.

Mum didn’t wait for anyone’s permission—she was already halfway up the path, fussing over which box looked heaviest and making a proper fuss out of nothing. I trailed behind, shoving my hands back into my hoodie pocket, pretending like I didn’t notice the way your eyes flicked to me every now and again.

“Here, love, let’s start with this one,” Mum said cheerfully, lifting the corner of a box marked Books before realizing she couldn’t carry it alone. She gave me a look. That look. The one that meant don’t stand there like a lump, Harry.

“Right,” I muttered, stepping forward and hooking my arms under the box. “Got it.”

It wasn’t that heavy, but I acted like it was, just to keep from looking too smug. You laughed—soft and quick, like maybe you weren’t expecting me to bother. Something about it made my ears burn.

Your house still smelled like cardboard and cleaning spray, that weird mix every place has before it becomes a home. I followed you down the hallway, past the living room with furniture covered in white sheets, and up the creaky staircase.

“This one’s mine,” you said, pushing the door open with your shoulder.

I stepped inside and set the box down with a dull thud. The room was half-empty—just a mattress against the wall and a pile of boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner. But there were hints of you already: a framed photo poking out of a bag, a notebook with doodles in the margins, trainers kicked off near the window.

“You’ve got a good view,” I said without thinking, nodding toward the window that looked straight across to my own room.