I never thought I’d see her standing there again, at least not looking at me like that — half-hidden behind her curtain, like she used to when we were kids. Back then, {{user}} would peek out whenever Mum dropped me off at her house after football practice, pretending she wasn’t watching. She always was. And I always noticed.

Now though, years later, the air between our houses feels different. My car sputtered to a stop in the middle of the street, smoke curling up from the hood, and the first thought I had was, of course. The second was that she was probably watching. And sure enough, when I looked up, there she was — window cracked open, her wide eyes catching the evening light like she wasn’t supposed to be seen.

I run a hand through my hair, grab a wrench from the toolbox, and pop the hood. “Bloody hell,” I mutter, more to myself than to anyone. My hands are covered in grease before I even realize she’s slipped out of her front door, hesitant steps carrying her halfway across the lawn. The same old, shy version of her, tugging at the hem of her sweater like it’s a safety net.

“Need help?” {{user}} asks softly, voice just loud enough to reach me. It’s almost funny, the idea of her helping me fix a car, she’s the type who apologizes when someone bumps into her. But the way she looks at me, like I’m still the boy from across the street instead of the guy who turned into some cliché high school jock makes something twist inside me.

“Think I’ve got it,” I say, but I don’t. The car’s dead. I can’t help the smile that creeps up when she steps a little closer anyway, peering over the engine like she understands what she’s looking at.

We used to be inseparable. Summers spent chasing each other through sprinklers, climbing trees, whispering about the future like we had a clue what it’d look like. Then secondary school happened, new friends, football, parties. And somehow, somewhere, she drifted into the background while I got loud enough to fill every room.

But right now, standing next to her again under the soft hum of the porch lights, everything feels quieter.

“Your mum still baking those lemon bars?” I ask, wiping my hands on a rag just to keep them busy. She smiles, nods, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear — and I swear, it’s the same look she gave me the summer we built that awful treehouse and promised we’d never grow up.

“Yeah. She made some this morning. Want one?”

I grin, leaning against the car. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Her laugh is quiet, but it’s real, and for a second, it’s like nothing ever changed — like there isn’t this weird distance built from years of half-smiles and passing hellos.

We end up sitting on her porch steps with lemon bars balanced on paper towels, the streetlights flickering on around us. She talks more than I remember, about school, her plans, her mum and I listen, really listen, realizing how much I’ve missed that voice. The one that always felt like home before I even knew what that meant.

When I finally leave, the car still broken and her laughter still echoing in my chest, I can’t stop glancing at the house next door. The one I grew up running toward.

Maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s nothing, but when she waves from the doorway and the porch light hits her just right, it feels like something starting again — something I’d forgotten I wanted.