Mr. Homewrecker

Chapter 3. Interaction

Even though we’d never actually spoken, somehow I already missed her.

It didn’t make sense. I knew that. Missing someone you’d never exchanged words with sounded ridiculous, borderline pathetic. But that afternoon, when I passed her house and the front yard sat empty—no brown curls, no potted plants, no quiet movement—it felt like something small had been taken from my day.

I rode home trying not to overthink it, telling myself I’d see her the next morning during my run. That had become our unspoken routine. Or at least, my routine.

Morning came. She didn’t.

The day after that, still nothing.

By the end of the week, the disappointment settled heavier in my chest than I wanted to admit. Every morning, I ran past the same house, slowing my steps just enough to check the yard, the porch, the windows. Nothing. No sign she’d ever been there at all.

I told myself to move on. But patience has never been my strong suit.

I caught myself considering knocking on her door—maybe in the afternoon, pretending I was lost or asking something stupid like borrowing a tool. The thought made me cringe. I didn’t want to be that guy. Still, the idea lingered.

And yet, some part of me hoped I wouldn’t need an excuse.

The next morning, Los Angeles greeted me with another warm summer sunrise. The air was already thick, the sky pale blue, the city stretching awake. I laced up my shoes and went out, half-expecting disappointment again.

Then I saw her.

She was back in her yard, hands buried in soil, surrounded by pots and green leaves like she belonged there. Relief hit me so hard I had to slow my breathing. I let out a long breath, realizing I wouldn’t have to invent reasons to see her later.

I deliberately slowed my pace as I passed, pretending I wasn’t staring, pretending my heart wasn’t doing something stupid in my chest.

That night, lying in bed, she was all I thought about.

I wanted to fight for her. The urge surprised me with its intensity. But reality hit just as fast. My life was a mess—money tight, future uncertain, relationship with my mom shattered. I wasn’t the kind of man who dragged a woman into instability. If anything, I believed in honoring the person you loved, protecting them from chaos.

For now, watching from a distance had to be enough.

If it was meant to be, it wouldn’t disappear.

Usually, just seeing her during my morning runs was enough to make my day. But that morning—that morning—something bigger happened. Big to me, even if no one else would’ve noticed.

The night before, I slept like I hadn’t in weeks. Maybe exhaustion finally caught up to me. When I woke up, sunlight was already spilling through the window. I cursed under my breath, rushing through my routine, so distracted I forgot to lock the door when I left. Lucky for me, nothing bad happened.

I ran harder than usual, legs burning, lungs working overtime. I didn’t want to miss her.

When I reached her street, I slowed, eyes searching the yard.

Empty.

Disappointment hit again—until I heard a soft sound from the side of the house. I glanced over and saw her struggling to lift a stack of heavy clay pots, her arms clearly not built for it.

I didn’t think.

I just stepped onto the lawn and took the stack from her hands.

“Where do you want these?” I asked, my voice coming out calmer than I felt.

She froze.

With the height difference between us, I had to look down, and she had to tilt her head up. For a second, she just stared. I could practically see the gears in her head grinding to a stop.

“Where should I put them?” I repeated, snapping her out of it.

“Oh—uh, back there,” she said, gesturing quickly and walking ahead to lead the way.

I followed her to a small garden area beside a koi pond, the water clear and quiet, framed with natural stone. I set the pots down on a wooden table.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“Anything else you need help lifting before I go?” I asked.

She was looking at my face again. When she realized it, she turned away fast, a soft pink spreading across her cheeks.

“No,” she said quietly.

“Okay, then.”

I left just like that.

Later, I realized she’d probably never noticed me passing her house before. I’d been invisible. But after that moment, something shifted. I didn’t see it then—but she did. From that morning on, she started waiting.

That tiny interaction did more to lift my mood than it had any right to. Her soft voice. The blush. The way she looked flustered just standing near me.

It made me want to become someone better—someone worthy of wanting her.

A week later, I was jogging the same route, same time, same intention.

And there she was.

Standing in front of her house like she’d been expecting me. She was wearing running clothes, sneakers laced, curly hair pulled into a ponytail. The sight stopped me mid-step.

“From now on,” she said, her cheeks already red, “we run together, okay?”

It wasn’t really a question.

A smile crept onto my face before I could stop it. I nodded and started walking, knowing—absolutely knowing—she’d fall into step behind me.

“Hey,” she said after a moment. “What’s your name?”

“Noah,” I answered simply, not turning around.

That was why she didn’t expect me to stop so suddenly.

She walked straight into my back and nearly bounced off. I caught her shoulders on instinct, steadying her before she fell.

She was… ridiculously adorable up close.

Trying not to laugh, I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Harper,” she said. “Harper Diaz.”

Her light brown eyes lingered on my mouth like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

For half a second, I forgot everything—money, guilt, responsibility. For half a second, I wanted to kiss her.

I let go of her shoulders immediately and turned away, hiding my nerves behind a calm exterior that fooled everyone but me. My heart was pounding like I’d just run a race.

That day, our interaction ended with introductions.

The funny part? I walked her home afterward, even though it doubled my usual distance. Worth it.

Over the next weeks, small conversations started happening. Nothing deep. Nothing personal. Just comments about the weather, the heat, how early mornings in LA somehow felt quieter than they should. Even after a month of running together, the nervousness never fully faded.

We waved goodbye. We smiled. Still far from lovers—but no longer strangers.

The next morning, as I was about to step out of my apartment, my phone rang.

It was the same number my stepdad had used months ago.

My stomach dropped.

I answered.

“Noah,” he said, voice tight with worry. “You need to come to New York. Now. I already booked a flight—it boards in an hour.”

“Dad,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “what’s going on?”

“It’s your mom,” he said quietly. “She’s in the ICU.”

The world tilted.

Fear, guilt, panic—they all crashed together. But one thing was clear: no matter how angry she was, no matter if she pushed me away, I had to see her. She was my priority. Always.

I went back inside and packed fast. For a moment, I thought about Harper—about saying goodbye. But I stopped myself.

We weren’t anything. Not yet.

I changed clothes, slung my leather backpack over my shoulder, locked the door, and rode straight toward LAX, the city stretching behind me in the heat and haze of summer.

I didn’t know how long I’d be gone.

All I knew was that everything was about to change again.