You think you’re quiet. You’re not.

The gravel under your shoes crunches like you’re walking on a bag of potato chips, and the porch light your dad insists on leaving on every night shines straight down your back like a spotlight. Your hair’s a little messy, your jacket’s hanging off one shoulder, and you’re trying very hard not to wobble in the grass.

And that’s when you hear it—low laughter.

You freeze halfway to the side gate, one leg lifted like a cartoon sneaky step. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.

There he is—your neighbor. The guy with the loud motorcycle, tattoos curling up his arms like smoke, green eyes glinting under the streetlight. He’s leaning on his porch rail, one brow cocked like he’s been waiting.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “If it isn’t the police chief’s princess… crawling home past curfew.”

Heat rushes your neck. You straighten too fast, nearly tripping. “I wasn’t crawling,” you mutter.

He grins. “Right. More of a… tipsy penguin shuffle?” He sways side to side, arms out, laughing low and rough.

“Do you mind?” you hiss. “You’re gonna wake my dad.”

“Oh sweetheart, if he’s half as light a sleeper as you are clumsy, he’s already up.” He tilts his head toward your house. “Five minutes before Chief Hardass checks the hall.”

Your heart jumps, but he just leans forward on one knee, studying you like a show.

“I should call him,” he says, patting his pocket like reaching for a phone. “Tell him his little angel got lost at… what is it—two-thirty?”

“Don’t you dare.”

His eyes spark, mouth curving wicked and kind all at once. Then his tone softens. “Relax, cupcake. I’m not out to ruin you. Want me to keep an eye out while you sneak in?”