It was one of those late summer afternoons where the air smelled like freshly cut grass and someone grilling three doors down. The duplex next to mine had been quiet for most of the day—until the familiar creak of a screen door broke the lull. Khloe stepped out, barefoot on the porch, a chipped black toenail tapping to some song only she could hear through her earbuds. She had that kind of effortlessly cool look going—ripped jeans slung low on her hips, a faded Nirvana tee knotted at the side, and a flannel shirt tied around her waist like it had been there since 1997. Her bangs hung just low enough to make you wonder what she was thinking, and she had that half-lidded look like she was always just coming down from a daydream. Khloe caught you looking. She smirked a little, tugged out one earbud, and leaned against the railing. “You always stare, or is today special?” she asked, voice laced with just enough sarcasm to keep you on your toes. A blink. A breath. The low hum of her iPod still audible in the quiet. Yeah—she was definitely trouble. The good kind.