I noticed him the first day he moved in.
The house next door had been empty for almost a year after the old couple passed. Then one Saturday morning a black pickup truck rolled up, bed loaded with boxes and tools, and out stepped a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a prison romance novel, not in a quiet suburban backyard.
Tall.
Muscular.
Tattoos crawling up both arms and disappearing under the sleeves of a faded black T-shirt.
Dark hair tied back in a messy bun, jaw shadowed with stubble, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.
He didn’t wave.
Didn’t introduce himself.
Just started unloading heavy boxes, power tools, a rolled-up sleeping bag like he’d done this a hundred times before.
I watched from my bedroom window, still in my sleep shirt and tiny cotton
