His GOODGIRL

The moving truck left at exactly 12:03pm. I watched it pull away from the curb and take half my life with it. College. Dorm room. The version of me that didn’t have to come home. Now it was just me, this 3-bedroom house in Riverside, and my dad asleep in the back room with an oxygen tank humming like a second heartbeat. I dropped my last box in the kitchen and pressed my palms to the counter. The laminate was peeling. Same as when I was 12. A knock. Three short, two long. I already knew who it was before I opened the door. Ethan. 24. Same faded gray hoodie. Same messy black hair that looked like he cut it himself. New tattoos crawling up his forearm. A toolbox in one hand and two iced coffees in the other. "You still can’t open that stuck window in your room without help, huh?" he said, holding out a coffee. I took it. Our fingers brushed. It was stupid how much that small touch did to me. "How did you—" "Your mom texted me last week. Said you were coming back." He shrugged like it was nothing. Like 3 years hadn’t passed. "Figured you’d need someone to fix shit." Ethan was the boy next door. Literally. He grew up in the blue house on the left. We shared a fence, a treehouse, and every stupid secret from age 7 to 19. Then I left for college and he stayed to work. We got to work. Window. Leaky faucet. The back door that stuck. He didn’t ask why I dropped out. I didn’t offer. By 4pm we were sitting on my kitchen floor eating cold pizza. Just like when we were 15 and sneaking out. "You look tired," he said quietly. "I am." That’s when I felt it. Eyes on me. Through the kitchen window, second floor balcony next door. A man in a black button-down. Sleeves rolled up. Glass of whiskey in hand. Dark hair, clean shave, and a look that was way too assessing for 4pm on a Tuesday. He saw me see him. And he raised his glass. Like a toast. "Who’s that?" I asked. Ethan followed my gaze and groaned. "Damien. My tenant. Moved into the guest house last month. Pays me way too much rent and judges my music." Damien. 28. CEO of something. Divorced. Ethan said he kept to himself. Damien held my stare for 2 seconds too long, then turned and went inside. Ethan didn’t notice. He was already telling me about his gym. About his new dog. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the way that stranger looked at me. Like he already knew something about me I didn’t. And I had this dangerous, traitorous thought: _The boy next door grew up. And he brought trouble with him._