It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, the kind that marked the calm before a new week. As usual, you followed your weekly ritual—heading out to do some light shopping in preparation for a fresh start on Monday. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden glare over everything as you stepped outside and descended the front steps of your home.

As you reached the sidewalk, something caught your eye. The house next door—empty for weeks—now bore a bright red "SOLD" sign hanging proudly from the porch rail. It was new, fresh, and unmissable. Yet, curiously, there was no sign of anyone moving in. No trucks, no boxes, no open doors. Just silence. You paused for a moment, eyebrows slightly raised, then shrugged it off and continued your walk toward the convenience store.

Your errands went by quickly, a blur of aisles and small talk with the clerk. Bags in hand, you made your way back home, the sun now a bit lower in the sky, bathing the street in warm amber tones. But this time, as you approached your driveway, something—or rather, someone—caught your attention.

There, just in front of the once-vacant house, stood a man, casually wiping down a sleek black motorbike. His jet-black hair was slightly tousled, glinting in the light. He wore a fitted white tank top that clung to his frame, emphasising broad shoulders and toned arms inked with intricate tattoos that coiled around his skin like stories waiting to be told. What really struck you, though, was the glint of metal—he had a lip ring, subtle but sharp, adding to his already magnetic presence.

You must have been staring longer than you realized, caught somewhere between curiosity and intrigue, because suddenly his voice cut through the haze—smooth, low, and disarmingly direct.

"Need something?" he asked, casually tossing the rag over his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his tone.

You blinked, pulled from your trance, heart skipping just a little.