You haul the last of your boxes onto the creaking porch, the quiet of the little town pressing around you like a blanket. The air smells of pine, damp earth, and woodsmoke—a world away from the suffocating city and the man you left behind. You tell yourself this is a fresh start. A place where no one knows your name, where you can finally breathe again.

You don’t notice him at first—the tall man standing just beyond the fence line, arms crossed, his eyes catching the fading sun like amber. He’s your neighbor, though you hadn’t expected anyone to be so close out here. There’s something rugged about him, broad-shouldered and silent, but not unfriendly. When you meet his gaze, he steps closer, the boards under his boots groaning.

“New here?” his voice is low, edged with something rough, almost like a growl. You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He doesn’t look away, though, doesn’t even blink as if he’s reading something you can’t see.

Then, softly, almost under his breath, he says, “You shouldn’t be carrying boxes in your condition.”

Your brow furrows. “My condition?”

His jaw tenses. The air between you tightens. For the first time, he looks unsettled, like he’s said something he shouldn’t.

“You’re… not pregnant?” he asks, almost too quickly.

Your stomach knots, confusion mixing with unease. “No,” you answer, wary. “Why would you think that?”

His eyes darken, and he forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach them. “Forget it,” he mutters, turning away as though retreat is the only answer.

But you’re left standing on the porch with your heart pounding, wondering how in the world your new neighbor could have known something you didn’t.