“Thanks for letting me buy the Doritos,” Milky says as I unload our groceries from the trunk. Milky’s wage covers our rent, the bills, the groceries, and the car payment. My wage barely covers the cost of breathing. I should know; I’m in charge of our budget. She gives me her entire pay, and I give her an allowance. We save every penny for greater days, for when the bars of the prison I’ve been living in finally slide open. “We had the money in the budget.”

“Where did we find the spare change?”

“Laundromat money,” I tell her. “Now that we can use the boys’, we have a few dollars to spare.” I carry more bags than I’m physically capable of and follow Milky up the path and toward our house, jumping when a horn sounds from behind us. Noah’s behind the wheel of his Honda, moving at a snail’s pace to accommodate our speed. He doesn’t bother waiting, though. He gets out of the car, engine idling, and rushes over to free me of the weight of the bags hanging on my forearm, the straps digging into my skin, turning my flesh an array of pinks and reds. Lips thinned to a line, my mysterious boy doesn’t speak when he runs his fingers along my arm, rubbing gently to recirculate the blood. His eyes meet mine, concern growing, and I smile. I can’t help it. “Hi,” I say, the boy in front of me causing all other thoughts to disintegrate into nothingness.

Noah’s lips curl up, up, up, until his teeth show, and the red from my arms is now on his cheeks. Our connection breaks when Milky kicks our front door, attempting to push it open. It’s no surprise that Noah jumps into action, a hero—my hero. He effortlessly, and wordlessly, guides Milky to the side by her shoulders and moves to the door, pressing with his hand flat against the timber. He rattles the doorknob, pushes, rattles again.

“It gets stuck,” Milky tells him. “It’s been like that since we moved in. We’ve told the landlord but...”

Noah nods, never once looking at her. He lifts the knob slightly and pushes again, this time allowing us entrance to our home. Chivalrous as always, he holds open the door for us before walking inside to dump the bags on our pathetic excuse for a kitchen counter. Then he returns to the door and spins his cap backward. Guh! He studies the hinges, tugs at the frame. Milky and I stand side-by-side watching his muscles flex beneath his threadbare t-shirt. “Work it, playboy,” Milky catcalls, taking a dollar bill from her pocket and throwing it at him. Milky nudges my side while Noah shakes his head, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth to contain his smile. He releases the door and turns to us, his gaze somewhere between my sister and me. “Do you have a screwdriver?”

Milky snorts. “I think the closest thing we have to a tool is Brad.”

Noah shakes his head again, then pulls out his phone, starts typing away. “Got any matches?”

Milky scoffs. “Have you seen us?” she says, wrapping her arm around my waist and pulling me to her side. “This house is hot enough.”

Noah’s eyes meet mine for a split second before moving to his hands. “I’ll be back.” He runs out of the house, to his car, parks it properly, and then disappears into his own house. Milky and I make quick work of unpacking the groceries, and a few minutes later, he’s back, a screwdriver in his hand. Milky winks at me, whispers, “This is going to be so much fun.” And then she strides over to him, hips swaying from side to side. “You need any help?” she asks. “I’m good at screwing.”

I pretend not to see Noah’s reaction: eyes wide, a slight tremble in his hands as he unscrews the hinges. Milky and I sit on the kitchen counter, watching the boy who flips my heart with his presence while she makes provocative remarks, and I simply stare.

Once the door’s removed, he pushes matches into the screw holes and then reattaches the door by its hinges, his biceps working overtime as he twists the screws in place. It’s a glorious sight, really. And I’m not the only one who notices. Milky’s eyes are trained to the strip of taut skin revealed between the bottom of Noah’s shirt and the top of his jeans, her smirk turning from teasing to lust. After Noah tests the now perfectly working door a few times, Milky jumps off the counter and sidles up to him, her arms going around his neck and pulling him down to her embrace. Noah stays frozen, everything but his eyes. Eyes on mine. Eventually, his arms move around her, not returning her embrace, but offering a single tap to her back.

Back down from the tips of her toes, Milky pulls away from our friendly neighborhood handyman and asks, “How did you know how to fix it?”

Noah shrugs. “I just looked it up.”

“Just like that, huh?”

Noah nods.

“Well,” Milky begins, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers. “One of the drawers in the kitchen sticks and one of the cabinet doors is on its last leg. Also, the tap in our bathroom leaks.”

“Milky!” I laugh out. “He’s not the maintenance guy or our landlord.”

“Put me to work,” Noah says, dropping the screwdriver into his back pocket. “I don’t mind.”

My sister skips over to the pantry and pulls out her bag of Doritos. She rips it open, throws one in her mouth and turns to him. “And trust us, playboy, we don’t mind watching you work.” So that’s what we do, Milky and I. We stand next to each other while we watch Noah look things up on his phone and then masterfully repair everything on the list we’d created to send to our landlord. Occasionally, Milky delivers scandalous, inappropriate quips toward the boy who wears a blush more than his natural tone. I expect the pang of jealousy to hit. It never does, because I know it’s just innocent teasing. Every few minutes, Noah looks up from his task and makes eye contact with me, his shy smile flooding my senses.

When the list is complete, I offer him a soda from our scant supply, and he uncaps it with ease, pulling at the liquid with his head tilted back, his throat rolling with every swallow.

I suppress my moan.

Milky exaggerates hers.

Noah wipes his lips across his forearm. “If the door sticks again, let me know right away. It’s dangerous. There could be a fire or an intruder—”

“If the intruder is you, I’d welcome it,” Milky teases.

Noah shakes his head and leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, focused on the drink in his hand. “You and Bradley are on the same shifts now, right?” he asks her.

Milky nods. “Yeah, why?”

He doesn’t lift his gaze when he says, “Just wondering when it’s safe to be in my house and when I should wear earplugs,” he jokes. He jokes! The boy’s got jokes, and I aim my smile at him. Not because it was funny, but because I feel like I’ve unwrapped another layer of the Noah Mystery and I’m one step closer to the gift that is he.

“Ha ha,” Milky says, her tone bursting with sarcasm. She flicks the brim of his cap, causing it to hang loose on his head.

He adjusts it, spinning it forward again, his eyes catching and holding mine.

And I realize now, in this minuscule of moments, that Noah Morgan isn’t an enigma or a paradox or a complete and utter mystery.

Noah Morgan is a gift-giving, soul-sharing, heart-stealing boy next door...

And he only has eyes for me.