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“What a coincidence.”

“It is a coincidence,” I reply, frowning up at the back of his head.

I suppose stranger things have happened.

At my front door, I fumble with the key, suddenly hyper-aware of him standing too close behind me. He still has both grocery bags in one hand, and I can feel the sheer size of him at my back while the lock refuses to cooperate. The deadbolt finally clicks, and I step inside, setting the bags just over the threshold before immediately starting to close the door between us.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Maybe we can have that drink now?” He leans into the doorframe, one hand braced above his head, his eyes making a slow trip down my body. The smirk on his face says he has already decided my answer will be yes.

“I don’t drink at midday.”

I push the door.

He doesn’t move.

The smirk slips a fraction. A muscle ticks in his jaw, as if I am being deliberately difficult by not understanding a proposition I never invited.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

I have a terrible feeling I do. I’m just hoping I’m wrong.

“I really don’t.”

He looks at me for a long moment, trying to work out whether I’m serious. Then he exhales through his nose.

“Fine,” he says. “I want to fuck. That clear enough?”

I stare at him.

He stares back, apparently under the impression he has clarified the issue rather than made it significantly worse.

“Very clear,” I say.

Then I slam the door in his face.

The deadbolt slides home with a thunk. I stay there for a moment, one hand still on the lock, my heart beating too fast. After a second, I lean in and peer through the peephole.

He’s still standing there, brow furrowed. The expression on his face is almost comical. Like it never occurred to him that I might actually say no.

I shake my head and push away from the door. Who does that? Propositions his new neighbor sixty seconds after meeting her, in the middle of the day, as if it is a perfectly normal thing to do.

Then again, maybe it is not entirely surprising. He has the kind of face that probably rarely hears the word no, and the kind of confidence that suggests he has mistaken that for charm.

I haul the grocery bags into the kitchen, still irritated, still slightly rattled, and then—despite everything—I catch myself smiling.

Did he really think that was going to work?

So much for a normal neighbor.

After I put everything away, I curl up on the couch with Fifi tucked against my chest.

She’s settled in so easily it almost breaks my heart. I’m fairly sure she’s half-blind, half-deaf, and generally confused about what planet she’s on, but the second I pick her up, she melts into me completely. No hesitation or suspicion. Just this tiny, fragile little body trusting me without question.

“You’re so brave,” I whisper into her soft fur. “I wish I were more like you.”

Saying it out loud loosens something in my chest, so I keep going. I tell her about my old life—the endless charity galas and society luncheons, the house that was photographed for design magazines. I tell her about the women who kissed my cheek, complimented my dress, then tore me apart the moment I left the room. How perfect everything looked from the outside, and how careful I became about never letting anyone see how hollow it felt underneath.