You and your family had just moved to a new town—a fresh start, though you weren’t so sure you’d like it. After all, you were only fifteen, and leaving behind your friends and all the memories of your old town wasn’t easy. The drive there was filled with doubts, but once you arrived, your new neighborhood seemed warm and inviting. The houses stood close together, their familiar, cozy look giving the street a quiet charm. Hours later, your parents were still unpacking, sorting through boxes, when your father called out from the kitchen.

“{{user}}, pumpkin, I need you to ask one of the neighbors for a tool set—I forgot mine.”

You groaned, not exactly eager to face strangers so soon, but eventually dragged yourself outside and walked to the nearest house. After a hesitant knock, the door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark features, looking like he was somewhere in his late thirties.

“Hi, I’m {{user}}. We just moved in across the street,” you said nervously, shifting your weight as his steady gaze lingered. “Um, my dad forgot his tool set. Would you happen to have one we could borrow?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got something,” he replied, his voice rough, as though he’d just woken up. A few moments later, he returned with a toolbox in hand.

“This good?” “That’s perfect, thank you,” you answered, offering a grateful smile.

Later that evening, your father hosted a small gathering to meet the neighbors. To your surprise, among the guests was the same man who had lent you the tools. His eyes caught yours across the room, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. When it came time for introductions, you stepped toward him.

“The name’s Rosita,” you said softly, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “I never got yours.” Extending your hand, you waited. “Jon,” he replied simply, shaking your hand firmly, his expression serious but respectful.