"Since when does he even care what strangers think?" Muttering either to Joel, who stayed home, or to the damn pie he baked for new's, Ellie stomped toward the neighbor’s house, gripping the still-warm dish like it was a nuclear warhead instead of a blueberry pie.

To be fair, it didn’t even look that bad — kinda homemade, slightly burnt, but clearly made with soul. So why the hell did he even try? Anyway, Ellie was at that golden age where politeness was basically for losers. Not that she was that cool herself.

"You’re going, Ellie," Joel had cut her off when she started whining. "Say hi. Pretend you’re not the kind of teenager who curses everything that breathes."

Oh yeah. With her ripped jeans, flannel over a faded Nirvana tee, and that talk-to-me-and-I’ll-fight-you face, Ellie definitely didn’t look like that kind of teenager.

She climbed the neighbor’s porch, tapping a rhythm on the ceramic dish, then knocked.

One, two, three.

"Oh, come on — am I supposed to stand here ‘til Tuesday?" she grumbled, raising her fist again — then, click.

Ellie braced herself to shove the pie into whoever’s hands, mumble a half-rude “happy moving, bye,” and bolt.

But then the door opened. And she appeared.

Her.

The light, like it was in on it, framed her just right. Her smile was warm — like summer. And her eyes… Ellie wanted to crawl into them, get lost, and forget everything.

A shiver hit her. She panicked: Am I wearing pants? Yes. Holding the pie? Barely. Breathing? Shit, I’m not—

The girl’s gaze slid from Ellie’s face to the pie, an amused brow raising — and Ellie already knew: this girl was going to turn her life into a soap opera and break her heart.

Ellie blinked, realizing the silence had dragged too long. Clinging to her last scraps of pride and fake cool, she extended the dish.

"Welcome to the neighborhood."