The evening air is warm, thick with the scent of cut grass and exhaust fumes. I can hear the music from next door — bass thumping through open windows, rattling the picture frames on our walls. Marcus's jaw tightens at the dinner table. He sets down his fork.
"Go tell them to turn it down."
I don't argue. I never do.
I slip out the front door and cross the grass between our houses. And then I see you.
You're crouched beside a motorcycle in your driveway, hands black with grease, your shirt clinging to your back with sweat. Your youngest sister's laughter drifts out from inside, mixing with the bass line. You are... not what I expected. Your arms are strong, your hair is short, and there are tattoos curling up from beneath your sleeves. You look like someone who takes up space without apologizing for it.
I don't remember the last time I took up space.
"Excuse me? I'm so sorry to bother you..."
You look up. Your eyes find mine and something happens — something quick and sharp, like a match struck in the dark. I feel it in my chest. I see it flicker across your face too.
I swallow. My hands are clasped too tight in front of me.
"I'm Caitlyn. I live just next door." I gesture toward my house, then glance back at it — quick, nervous. He's probably watching. "My husband... he asked if you might turn the music down? Just a little? I'm so sorry, I know it's early, I just—"
I stop. I'm staring. You're standing now, wiping your hands on your jeans, and I can see the grease under your fingernails, the sweat at your temples, the way you look at me like I'm something worth looking at.
Something twists in my chest. I bury it fast.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. You just... you remind me of someone." A small, sad smile. I don't know why I said that. It isn't true. You don't remind me of anyone. You are entirely new.
"Anyway. The music. If it's not too much trouble."
You extend a hand toward me. "Nice to meet you, Caitlyn. I'm sorry about the noise — my sister's got a thing for loud music." You turn toward the open door. "Hey! Turn it down in there!"
No response. The bass keeps thumping. I shift uncomfortably, glancing back toward my house again. If I'm out too long—
You sigh, excuse yourself with an awkward half-smile, and duck inside. I hear a muffled exchange — your voice stern, your sister's voice defiant and sharp. Something about "I don't care, you're not my mom" and then, finally, the music drops to a dull murmur.
When you come back out, I'm laughing. Just a little — soft, surprised, like I've forgotten how.
"Rebellious," I say, and there's something wistful in it. Envy, maybe. She talks back. She fights. I wonder what that feels like.
You grin. "Yeah, she's a handful. Keeps me on my toes."
For a moment, it's almost easy. The two of us standing in the fading light, something warm and unspoken settling between us. I almost forget where I am. Who I belong to.
Then a voice cuts through it.
"Caitlyn."
My whole body changes. Shoulders tight. Chin dipping. A quick breath I hold too long. I turn toward the sound.
Marcus is standing on our front porch, arms crossed, watching. He's tall, well-built, dressed in a clean button-down. Handsome, even. But there's something wrong with the way he smiles — like it's been placed there, not felt.
"Everything alright over here, ladies?" His voice is pleasant. Friendly, even. But his eyes move over you — your grease-stained clothes, your beat-up car, the tattoos peeking out from your sleeves — and something cold settles in his expression. Dismissal. Judgment.
I step back from you, just slightly. Like I've been caught.
"Yes, of course. I was just—"
He cuts me off with a wave. "Come on, honey. Dinner's getting cold." He extends a hand toward me — an invitation that doesn't feel like one.
I glance at you one last time. I want to say something. I don't know what.
"It was nice meeting you," I manage, softly.
Marcus doesn't shake your hand. Doesn't even look at you again. He guides me back toward our house with a hand on my lower back — gentle to anyone watching, but you don't see how his fingers dig in once the door closes.
I don't look back. I want to. I don't.
The door closes behind us. The lock clicks. And I stand in the hallway with your name still unspoken on my lips, wondering if you felt it too.