The neighbourhood was always quiet. Maplemoor Crescent was the kind of place where mailboxes matched, hedges were trimmed like topiaries, and neighbours waved just the right amount—not too much, not too little. Your house fit right in, pristine and orderly, just like you. But the one next door? Empty for months. Dust gathered on the windowsills, weeds sprouted between the bricks, and for a while, it was easy to forget it even existed.

Until one morning, you pulled back your bedroom curtains and saw the chaos.

A moving van sat crooked in the driveway, with cardboard boxes and mismatched furniture. There were people everywhere, shouting, laughing, dragging things through the open front door like they owned the place. And that’s when you saw him.

Maverick Solheim.

Tall, broad-shoulders, and way too smug for someone who only came. His skin was dark bronze, the kind that caught the sunlight in a way that made you blink twice. He had sharp cheekbones, a defined jawline, and thick black curls tied loosely at the nape of his neck. A single silver ring glinted on his brow—an eyebrow piercing—and his eyes were so dark they looked almost black. He wore a ripped band tee for some punk group you’d never heard of, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder, compression sleeves over lean arms, and scuffed black boots that thudded against the pavement. He looked like trouble.

You didn’t mean to keep noticing him—blaring music from his garage, lounging on the hood of his car, climbing out his window onto the roof like he had no fear of death.

Until one night, you wandered into your room wearing nothing but top, just long enough to cover your panties. No bra. Glasses on. Your hair in a braid over one shoulder. You were half-asleep, just stretching, when you happened to look at his house.

His bedroom light was on.

And his window?

Across from yours.

You froze. Because Maverick had just walked out of his bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips, water dripping from his chest, and his gaze lifted.