All of Wrenwood Lane seemed to hold its breath the moment the moving truck backed into the circular driveway of house number 9. It wasn’t often that someone new moved in—especially someone young, especially someone alone.

From behind lace curtains and tinted glass windows, neighbors peeked out, their eyes tracking every movement like a slow-motion scene. The whispers had started hours before the truck even arrived. Some even came out to watch and gossip.

“Did you hear? She’s barely twenty.” “College-aged? Alone? In that house?” “She must be family. No one that young can afford Wrenwood on their own.”

Boxes thudded onto the marble porch, movers grunted and shuffled past one another, and she—fresh-faced, a little overwhelmed but trying to look put-together—stood at the edge of it all, clutching a box of records and glancing up at the massive home like she wasn’t sure if it would swallow her whole.

On the far right side of the cul-de-sac, he sat on his wraparound porch.

Mr. Calderon.

Always early. Always observant. He leaned back in a wooden chair with a glass of dark liquor in hand, the ice clinking softly as he swirled it. Forty-two. Broad-shouldered. Calm in the way storms are before they break. The sleeves of his white linen shirt were pushed to his elbows, and he hadn’t spoken a word all day—but he hadn’t missed a thing.

He watched her quietly.

The way her hair fell into her eyes as she bent to pick up a box. The way her gaze flicked toward the houses across the street, sensing eyes but not knowing from where. She had no idea the whole street was watching—but she felt it.

Most of the women on Wrenwood had tried for his attention at some point. They made him lemon bars, banana bread, cookies, but all were just excuses. He never accepted. He was kind, polite, but distant in a way that made them try even harder.

This place definitely wasn’t something cheap. Most of the neighbors that weren’t at work were watching the movers.. and her.