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“Hey, Cal.” Mikey lifted his chin in greeting as he navigated toward the living room. “This is James. He lives on the second floor.”

“Good thing I was coming back from my run,” James said as Mikey stopped in front of the blank wall where the TV would go. They lowered the box down, James grunting loudly.

James stood, surveying the space, his eyebrows rising into his hairline. “Wow. These front units are a lot bigger than the back ones. I barely even have a dining nook.”

He drifted toward the windows, delivering a monologue on the view, street parking, and the height of our ceilings.

I tried to catch Mikey’s attention, but he’d pulled out a pocketknife and was focused on opening the box.

James eventually left the window to perch a hip onto the back of the couch, one foot swinging idly. “You guys buy this place directly from the developer? I don’t remember seeing it listed for sale?”

Mikey looked at me then at James. “Oh, uh. We’re just renting.”

James pursed his lips. “Really? But I thought⁠—”

“My dad knows the developer,” I blurted before he could finish speaking.

James pushed off the couch and wandered toward the island, where he leaned forward to rest his forearms on the countertop. “Your dad some big shot or something to pull those strings? ‘Cuz this building’s supposed to be fully owner-occupied—no rentals or Airbnb’s allowed.”

Mikey snorted and joined us at the island, pulling out a stool and sliding onto it. “Oh, his dad’s a big shot, all right.”

James looked from Mikey to me and back again, his eyes going wide. “Oh my fucking god. You called him Cal when we first came in.”

Mikey smirked, his eyes flicking my way. “I did, didn’t I?”

James’s gaze swung between us. “Holy shit. You’re Robert Callahan’s kid. They’re saying you’re going to finally turn the Marauders around.”

I set down the piece of the espresso machine I’d been fiddling with, feeling my ears go hot. “I don’t know about that.”

“No, you are. This is our year. I can feel it.” He shook his head in wonder, murmuring, “I live below Hunter Callahan.”

“And Michael Porter,” I said, tipping my chin toward Mikey.

“Who?” James asked, momentarily confused.

Mikey groaned, clutching his chest theatrically. “Ouch.”

James laughed. “Sorry, man. But you said it yourself when we were outside: no one’s ever heard of you.”

“But they will,” I said resolutely.

I wouldn’t have staked my whole reputation on just anyone. Mikey’s playing style made him integral to any success we’d achieve in the coming years.

After a beat of silence that went on too long, James straightened, reaching for the phone in his pocket. “Do you think I can get a picture? My dad and brother are never going to believe this.”

“Oh.” I rubbed the back of my neck, mentally running through every place that photo could end up.

I’d grown up with Minutemen fans taking pictures outside our house in Boston. I wasn’t famous like my dad, but the idea of people knowing where I lived? No fucking thanks.

Mikey slid off his stool and clapped James on the shoulder, turning him toward the door. “Maybe some other time. This is where we live, you know?”

James had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Oh, shit. Yeah. Sorry. Forget I asked.”

“Thanks for helping me bring the box in.” Mikey stuck out his hand, and James looked slightly stunned to find himself being ushered out.

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Anytime,” he said, glancing my way. “See you around, Hunter.”

“Later,” I said, my shoulders relaxing the second Mikey closed the door behind our new neighbor.