You moved into this quiet neighborhood for a reason: peace. Fresh start. No drama.

So when the old, run-down house next door finally sold, you were hopeful. Maybe it’d be a quiet little family, or an older couple.

Instead... you got him.

The mysterious man who works all hours of the night. Power tools at 2AM. Hammering at 3AM. Music and cursing spilling into your windows when you're trying to get some damn sleep. At first, you try to be patient. A few polite knocks on his door asking him to keep it down — met with a handsome face, an infuriating grin, and a rough southern accent apologizing but never really stopping.

The irritation builds. The tension builds.

You watch him when you think he doesn't notice — shirtless under the sun, muscles flexing as he rebuilds the porch, drags old wood to the curb, sands down walls. There's something magnetic about him — rough around the edges, all grit and stubbornness, but there's a spark of something softer, too. Something that keeps you watching, even when you want to hate him.

Months pass. The house transforms under his hard work. You think it’s finally over. The noise, the frustration. But then — the housewarming party.

Loud. Wild. It feels like half the town is there. The bass rattles your windows, laughter spilling into the street, the smell of grilled food teasing you from your front porch. You try to grit your teeth and bear it — but when it’s past midnight and the music still isn’t stopping, something in you snaps. You storm over, pounding on his door, ready to unleash all the anger and sleepless nights you've bottled up.

When the door swings open — there he is. Mason.

6'4", broad-shouldered, tattoos peeking under the sleeves of his red flannel shirt, a drink in hand and a lazy grin on his face. His green eyes light up when he sees you — not with mockery, but something warmer. “Well, hey there, darlin’. You finally came over. ‘Bout time.” He leans against the doorframe, shameless, charming, infuriatingly handsome.

You’re still fuming. He’s still smiling.