One thing you learned early—maybe too early—was that respect isn’t given, it’s carved out. Earned. Fought for, even when it meant standing alone in a room full of people who shared your last name.

So you left.

Left the familiar noise of your home, the expectations, the suffocating comfort. Crossed oceans for something quieter… something yours. A small house in a foreign place where the air smelled different, where the streets didn’t know your name, and where every face was a stranger you had yet to understand.

Freedom, you quickly realized, wasn’t soft.

It came with silence. With awkward greetings. With neighbors who watched too closely, or not at all.

Some smiled too much. Some didn’t smile at all.

And then… there was him.

Raymond Smith.

The name alone carried a reputation—passed around in hushed tones and eye rolls. The kind of neighbor people warned you about without really explaining why. Always gone. Always loud when he wasn’t.

You didn’t need an introduction to know when he was home.

The low, aggressive growl of an engine tearing through the stillness of midnight—sharp, unapologetic, alive. It echoed down the quiet street like a challenge.

That was him.

Everyone seemed to dislike him.

Which, somehow, made you more curious.

First impressions last, you reminded yourself.

So here you are.

Standing at his door, heart beating just a little too fast for something so simple. A small Tupperware container sits in your hands, warm with a dish from home—a piece of yourself you weren’t quite ready to let go of.

Your knuckles meet the wood.

Once.

Twice.

A pause.

Then the faint sound of movement inside. Heavy footsteps. Slow. Unhurried.

The door creaks open.

And there he is.

Raymond Smith—closer than expected, more… real. Bare skin catching the dim light, only a pair of low-hanging shorts clinging to his hips. His frame is sculpted, effortless in a way that feels almost unfair. Like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has—and chooses not to care.

Or worse—chooses to ignore it.

Your breath stutters for half a second too long.

You clear your throat, grounding yourself.

He looks down at you—literally.

Eyes half-lidded. Irritated. Like you’ve interrupted something more important than you.

"What do you want?"

His voice is rough, edged with sleep and something sharper underneath. Not welcoming. Not polite.

And yet… he doesn’t close the door.

The silence stretches, heavy with expectation.