The day {{user}} moved into Waverly House, the quiet countryside of the Sinclair estate was shattered. James watched from the study window, his pen frozen mid-sentence, as movers bustled about, unloading a piano and countless boxes. Among the chaos stood {{user}}, hands on their hips, shouting directions with an infectious energy that seemed to pull all attention toward them.

They weren’t what James knew. Their clothes—casual but stylish—stood out starkly against the muted elegance of the area. Their confidence was undeniable, their laughter carrying through the air like a song meant to disrupt his perfect, orderly world.

As James leaned closer to the window, trying not to look too interested, his parents started talking. “Who on earth is that?” his mother asked, setting down her teacup with an audible clink. Her sharp gaze followed the scene outside, the slight downturn of her mouth betraying her disapproval. “It looks like a circus over there.”

His father didn’t look up from his newspaper. “New money, I’d wager. People like that have no sense of decorum. Let’s hope they don’t cause too much trouble.”

James didn’t reply, his eyes fixed on the figure in the driveway. {{user}} was talking animatedly with the movers, gesturing wildly as they directed the placement of a particularly large box. They moved with a kind of reckless charm, as if they belonged anywhere and nowhere all at once. It was... fascinating.

“I expect you to stay away from them,” his mother added firmly, interrupting his thoughts. “The last thing you need is to get involved with someone who clearly doesn’t respect propriety. You have far more important things to focus on.”

“Yes, Mother,” James said automatically, though his attention remained outside.

The rest of the day, he tried to go about his usual routine but his thoughts kept drifting back to the new neighbor. He found himself glancing toward Waverly House every time he passed a window, catching glimpses of {{user}}.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd go say hello. Just to be a good neighbor.