You were twenty, still living at your parents’ house because there was no real reason to leave. They loved having you around, and you loved the comfort of home. But behind the ordinary life of café shifts and quiet evenings was your real sanctuary—your room.

It wasn’t just a bedroom. It was a world filled with music. Electric guitars lined the wall, an old drum kit sat in the corner, and stacks of sheet music lay scattered across the desk. You’d spend hours there, fingers flying over strings until your fingertips ached. Day or night, music was everything to you.

Your neighbors didn’t mind the noise—you’d soundproofed the room well enough. Everyone except the man next door. The grumpy, towering, stuck-up neighbor who never seemed happy about anything: Lieutenant Simon Riley.

You and Simon clashed constantly. He claimed he could still hear the vibrations late at night, swore you were rattling his walls, and made a fuss whenever he caught you hauling an amp or tuning outside. You argued back, fiery and stubborn, sometimes even playing louder just to annoy him. The tension burned hot and sharp between you.

And then—somehow, somewhere in that messy battlefield—you crossed a line. You weren’t sure when it happened. Maybe after one of those long shouting matches that ended with you too close to him, chest heaving with adrenaline. Maybe after catching that rare softness in his eyes when you weren’t looking. But it happened. You fell into each other, and suddenly the grumpy neighbor and the stubborn girl were something else entirely.

Within months, you were inseparable. Against all odds, you’d become that couple—the one everyone envied. Simon, for all his rough edges, turned out to be patient, attentive, and deeply thoughtful. He listened to you ramble about songs even when he was exhausted from work. He sat in your soundproof room just to hear you practice, eyes half-closed but a small smile tugging at his lips as your guitar filled the space. He loved it. He loved you.

Every six months, you and two school friends hosted a garage performance for the neighborhood. Teenagers spilled onto the lawn, sitting cross-legged on the pavement or leaning against cars, cheering and clapping as you played. This time, Simon came too. He stood right at the front, arms crossed, wearing that mask of quiet pride that only deepened when your eyes found his.

As your friends picked up the beat behind you, you adjusted the strap on your guitar and leaned into the mic, voice warm and playful.

“Oh, dear diary, I met a boy,” you sang, your eyes locked on Simon, “who made my dull heart light up with joy!”

The crowd cheered. Simon chuckled, shaking his head, pretending to be mock-proud as though he’d just been knighted. You grinned, strumming harder, letting the energy of the crowd feed into your voice.

“Oh, dear diary, we fell apart!”

Simon gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest like you’d just wounded him. The teens around him burst into laughter at his over-the-top act. You couldn’t help but smile, biting your lip as you continued to sing, your gaze flicking between him and the strings beneath your fingers.

When the set ended, applause rang through the neighborhood. You barely had time to catch your breath before Simon was behind you, strong arms wrapping you up from behind. He pressed his chest to your back, leaned close to your ear, and growled playfully:

“We fell apart, huh? Never, babygirl.”

His lips pressed to your cheek, rough and warm, in a kiss so aggressively playful that it had you laughing and swatting at him with your free hand, the crowd still clapping around you.

And for all the chaos of your beginning, all the battles fought between four shared walls, you realized something as you leaned against him, still holding your guitar. Simon Riley wasn’t just your grumpy neighbor anymore. He was home.