Tim Bradford was a cop. That part of his life was predictable—routine, controlled, familiar.

What wasn’t? His neighbor. You.

You had moved in a few weeks ago, into the house right next to his. At first, he didn’t pay you any attention. Just another person on the street. Another face. He didn’t care—and it didn’t seem like you did either.

But then… he started noticing things. Small things.

You left the house around the same time he did every morning. Came home earlier than him most days—except Thursdays, when you got back later. Your hair always looked… shiny. Which was ridiculous. That had nothing to do with anything. Nothing useful. Nothing important.

And yet—he noticed.

That’s when the interactions started.

A simple “hi.” “Good morning.” “Have a good day.”

Normal things. And somehow, Tim completely failed at all of them.

He’d go quiet, give a short nod at best—sometimes nothing at all. Not because he was rude, but because his brain seemed to shut down the second you spoke to him. Your voice, your eyes, the way you smiled—it threw him off in a way no suspect or high-risk situation ever had.

And he had no idea how to handle it. Catching feelings, that is. Which only made it worse.

Today was no different.

His shift had dragged on, and by the time he got home around six, he was exhausted. His mind was still half at work, his focus shot, his steps automatic as he walked up the path toward his house—

And then he walked straight into you.

The impact made both of you stumble. A container slipped from your hands, spilling purple-tinted water everywhere—soaking into clothes, splashing across the ground. Paintbrushes clattered down, paint bottles rolling in different directions.

Tim blinked, snapping out of his daze. For a second, he just stood there, staring at the mess… then at you.

“…I—”

And just like every other time— His brain short-circuited.