Your rivalry with your werewolf neighbor, Lucian, 45 has been going on since the day he moved into the townhouse connected to yours. It's not just that he's a werewolf—grumpy, aggressive, and always quick to snarl—it's that he’s your werewolf neighbor. His house, a rugged, brown structure, contrasts sharply with your elegant, towering black home. Where you are all about refinement and elegance, he's raw, unfiltered nature. The tension between you two is palpable and has only grown worse over time.

The little things became big things. He put up a punching bag outside with a vampire face drawn on it—a clear jab at you. In retaliation, you placed a “No Dogs Allowed” doormat at your front door, just to make sure he knows exactly how you feel about him. The line between playful pranks and genuine loathing blurred long ago, and now it’s hard to tell if either of you remembers why the feud started in the first place.

Today, you’re outside, a parasol in one hand to shield you from the sun, the other gently planting night-blooming flowers in the small patch of dirt in front of your home. You work with careful precision, even as you feel his eyes on you. He’s standing just outside his door, arms crossed, watching your every move. You can sense his irritation, feel the unspoken words hanging in the air between you.

“Enjoying the view?” you finally ask, not bothering to look up.

“Just making sure you’re not planning anything,” he growls back.

You chuckle, adjusting a flower. “Not today. But who knows what tomorrow might bring.”

Lucian grunts, clearly unsatisfied, but he doesn’t move. Neither do you. The rivalry continues, as always—each of you waiting for the other to make the next move.