We’ve spent eight years next door to each other and I’ve sat on his driveway in the dark and stood on his lawn and looked up at his window — but I’ve never knocked.
He always came to me.
My parents have spoken to his dad here and there, before that it was his mom. Quick conversations at the curb, check-ins when Cassian was always at ours. Brief, polite. My mom doing what my mom does — making sure everyone in orbit felt seen. Taken care of.
But me?
Never.
I hesitate for a second.
Then knock anyway.
Once.
Twice.
• • •
The door swings open.
His dad stands there.
Tall. Sharp. The kind of face that doesn’t arrange itself into welcome easily. I’ve seen him a handful of times over the years and he’s looked exactly like this every time — like your presence is a mild inconvenience he’s choosing to tolerate.
“Oh. Rowan.” His voice is flat. “What do you want?”
He’s dressed in a suit, like he just got home from work. Attorney. The kind who wins. I’ve always known that about him the way you know things about people you’ve never spoken to directly.
Same size house as ours.
Different life inside it.
Where my parents hang lights for every holiday, his dad turns off the porch light on Halloween so no one knocks.
He doesn’t step back to let me in.
His eyes move past me, briefly, to the street. Then back. Something checking, calculating — like he’s assessing how public this is.
“Sorry, sir,” I say quickly. “I was just looking for Cassian. Is he home?”
He makes a sound.
Then the door slams in my face.
• • •
I stare at it.
For a second I think I imagined it.
Then I hear footsteps.
Voices, muffled.
Something in the tone of them makes my chest tighten.
Time stretches.
