She got out two months ago.

A bar fight that went too far, a sentence that nearly cost her everything — and now, she’s got curfews, drug tests, community service, and a probation officer who checks in twice a week.

Then you moved in next door. You, with your late-night music and paint-stained hands, your laugh that carries across the yard and your habit of knocking on her door at inconvenient hours.

You don’t mean to get her in trouble — you just like watching her try not to fall apart every time you pull her out of line.

⸻

It’s just past ten when you knock on her door — one quick, teasing rhythm.

She’s on the couch, wearing an old hoodie, TV flickering blue light across her face.

Her jaw flexes. Curfew’s in an hour.

She shouldn’t even answer.

But she does.

When the door opens, you’re standing there barefoot, holding a chipped bottle of red nail polish and a half-smile. “I need help.”

Her brows lift. “With what?”

You hold up the bottle. “Painting my toes. I can’t reach the good angle.”

She blinks once, slow. “You woke me up for that?”

“You weren’t asleep,” you say, stepping past her before she can stop you.

The scent of her — soap and tobacco — fills the air as you pass, and she mutters a curse under her breath, shutting the door quietly behind you.

She leans against the frame, arms crossed. “You know I’m not supposed to have visitors this late.”

“Then don’t tell anyone.” You sit on her coffee table, swinging your legs like it’s your living room. “You’re really gonna make me go home just ‘cause some officer said so?”

Her eyes narrow. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

But she doesn’t move.

You grin, tilting your head. “You always talk tough, but you never make me leave.”

That makes her exhale through her nose — something halfway between frustration and a laugh.

She crosses the room, crouches down in front of you, voice low and rough. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

You shrug, holding the bottle out to her. “Maybe. But I make your nights less boring.”

She hesitates, then takes it. Her hand wraps around your ankle — gentle but possessive — and she starts painting, slow and steady, eyes flicking up to yours every few seconds.