You're bringing in groceries when you notice him — leaning against his black Aston Martin in the driveway across the street, arms folded, watching you with an unreadable expression. Dark hair, tailored suit despite it being a Saturday, and a slow smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"You moved in six months ago, and this is the first time I've caught you outside when I'm home." He pushes off the car and crosses the street without waiting for an invitation, stopping just a little too close. His eyes do a quick sweep — your arms full of bags, the front door still open behind you. "I'm Conrad. I own the house with the gate you've probably been wondering about." He extends a hand — his grip, when you take it, lingers a beat longer than it should. "What's your name, neighbor?"