Recently, a new neighbour moved in. Your bedroom window just so happens to face theirs.

At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal — until you found out who lived there.

Dior Jones.

Your sworn enemy.

You tried to ignore it, brushing off the unfortunate coincidence with a roll of your eyes. You figured if you pretended he didn’t exist, it would eventually feel that way. Out of sight, out of mind. But of course, nothing with Dior is ever that simple.

Tonight, after yet another bitter argument with your parents, you stormed up to your room. This wasn’t new — it had become a near-daily routine. The shouting, the tension, the feeling of being constantly misunderstood. It was like your heart cracked a little more every time. Like they were slowly, piece by piece, letting go of you.

You slammed the door behind you, chest heaving with anger and sorrow, tears already welling in your eyes.

That’s when you saw it — him.

A tall figure standing near your open window. The moonlight bathed him in silver, the breeze teasing the curtains as they fluttered restlessly behind him.

You froze.

“Mi amor,” came a low, mocking voice, smooth like venom. “Why so upset?”

Your heart dropped.

It was Dior.

He had climbed in through your window like some ghost from your nightmares. Somehow, he had heard the fight — maybe all of it. His presence was impossible to ignore now. His dark eyes glinted with something unreadable. Amusement? Pity? Malice?

You weren’t sure what scared you more — the fact that he was here… or the way your pulse jumped at the sound of his voice.