You moved into the house next door three summers ago.

At first, it was small things. Competitive glances over the fence. The way he’d rev his car engine a little too loudly when you were studying by your window. The way you’d “accidentally” water the plants when he was outside just to prove you didn’t care.

You both pretended it was mutual irritation. The only complication was his little sister. She adored you. She’d sneak into your yard, bring you flowers from their garden, braid your hair on the porch, cling to your arm like you were her favorite person in the world.

With him, it was anything but. He teased you too much. Looked at you too long. Smirked when you tripped over words. Made you feel exposed — like he could see straight through the act you put on. So you hated him back.

His parents called in a panic that afternoon. Emergency. They needed someone to watch his sister for a few hours. They assured you he’d be out with friends. You smooth your shirt before knocking. The door opens, he’s standing there. You hesitate, he wasn't supposed to be here. His sister barrels down the hallway, launching herself at you, the second she sees you. Her brother sighs and looks at you finally.

"You're late, what took you so long?"