I’ve eaten five mouthfuls of cereal.

It’s also the number of times I’ve seen that strange neighbor cross the yard just outside our back door.

It’s like he’s pacing, but he can’t be because minutes pass between each appearance. At first, I thought he was getting something from his car that needed multiple trips, but he never comes back with anything in his hands. I’m intrigued by his actions as I watch, standing at the kitchen counter with the now soggy bowl of Cornflakes in front of me. I’m also mesmerized by his movements, his long legs fluid as he takes every step.

So maybe I’m simply compelled by him? I allow myself this one, harmless thought.

I’ve only seen him a few times since they moved in, and each time he’d been in dark denim and a faded leather jacket covering a threadbare t-shirt, all of which hugged his large frame. He wasn’t jacked, but he was lean, muscles in areas that counted. He wore caps pulled low on his brow, and the first time I saw him, I caught a glimpse of his dark brown hair curled beneath the edges. I noticed his eyes were blue when they took me in for longer than I felt comfortable, but they were dark, shaded by the brim of his cap. I wondered what they’d look like in the sunlight. Probably as vivid as Milky’s personality.

I stand taller when I see him again, his steps faltering just outside our door, his head tilting to look inside. The curtains are sheer, drawn to let sunlight in, but our house—if you can call it that—is dark, and he’d have no way of knowing I was watching him. He moves again, back to the stairs that lead to his balcony. I hear his footsteps climb them, then the slide of a door opening and closing.

Unexpected disappointment causes my shoulders to slump. I wanted him to knock on the door, to talk to me, regardless of how odd he seems. It’s lonely here with Milky working nights and sleeping most of the day. All my life I’ve had people around me, sometimes more than I could handle, but it was better than being alone.

Sighing, I empty my leftover cereal in the trash and go to dump the bowl in the sink, but it’s full, a mixture of soapy water and Milky’s thongs. Only in our house would this be normal. We don’t have a washer or dryer, and I planned a trip to the laundromat this weekend if we had the cash. She must be desperate.

I grab the laundry rack from the closet near the front door and pick out her thongs from the sink, dumping them into an empty fruit bowl. It takes some coordination to slide open the back door, but I do, and then I rest the bowl on one of the chairs that matches the small patio table. There’s a slab of concrete just outside our door, and Milky had done what she could to make our house as homey as possible before I moved in, getting the place fully furnished for us.

Setting up the rack just outside our door, I hope it’ll catch enough sunlight to dry her stuff before she leaves for work. I pick up a purple-sequined thong and place it on the rack. And then another. And another. And—“Hey.”

I turn just in time to see my neighbor stand from the bottom of his balcony stairs. He runs his hands along his jeans and offers what I think is a smile, but I can’t tell because the morning light casts a shadow of his cap across his face. I force myself to wave back, Milky’s thong still in my hand. I hide it behind my back while he approaches, slow and sleek, footsteps silent against the concrete. He stops a few feet in front of me, rubbing the back of his neck. I stare at his eyes. He stares at my breasts, braless beneath my sleep tank, and I almost burst into flames with the heat of my embarrassment. I cross my arms to cover them, but in my haste, I release Milky’s underwear, and it somewhat gracefully flutters to the ground between us.

Now his gaze is on them, and my gaze is on his, and then he tilts his head up, his eyes wide and I was right: vivid against the morning sun, his eyes are spectacular. Bright ocean blue surrounded by dark lashes, flattering above his pink-tinged cheeks, and he’s cute.

Beyond cute.

Because he’s as embarrassed by our awkward encounter as I am, maybe more, and so I try to save the both of us. “They’re Milky’s.” Good save, loser.

His eyes go back to my breasts, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I figured,” he murmurs, then he shakes his head. “Not that you wouldn’t—or shouldn’t—or can’t wear—” His mouth clasps shut, his hand reaching up to remove his cap and scratch his head. I think he curses under his breath, but I can’t be sure. When the hat’s back in position, he heaves out a breath. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

My head tilts. “For what?”

“For the housewarming present.”

“Oh.” The gift had been sitting on the counter for days, and I’d told Milky about it but didn’t know she’d given it to them. “You’re welcome.”

He clears his throat. “Your sister”—he points to the thongs on the rack—“she said that you could tell me what the crystals mean. I tried to look it up online, but...”

It’s endearing, really, that he would care enough to look it up. I crane my neck to look up at him. He’s taller than I originally thought, over six foot for sure. I say, “The orange one, citrine, it’s for prosperity and abundance, and the rose quartz is for love and peace...”

“And the jade?” he asks. “I mean, I deduced that it was jade, but I wasn’t sure.”

I smile, unable to help it, and pick up another piece of underwear from the fruit bowl and lay it on the rack. “The jade is for harmony and good luck.”

Barely above a whisper, the boy mumbles, “Harmony and good luck, huh?”

I nod.

“Well, thanks again. From my roommate and me.”

“Bradley?” I ask, ignoring my task and facing him fully. He seems more relaxed now, his arms loose at his sides, but he still doesn’t make eye contact.

Nodding, he asks, “You know him?”

“He’s been creepin’ on my sister.”

My friendly, awkward, but-not-so-weird neighbor rolls his eyes. “If he bothers either of you, just tell him to fuck off.”

That word, coming from his mouth, is like a shot of adrenaline straight through my veins. I look away, not that he’d notice, and stare down at his toes sticking out from the frayed edges of his jeans. “Okay, well…” he says.

I nod at his feet.

He clears his throat again, and I slowly trail my eyes back up, noticing how his knees bend slightly, how he effortlessly shoves his hands in his pockets, how his shoulders tighten from the placement of his arms, how his chest stretches the fabric of his t-shirt, how his throat rolls with his swallow, how his wet lips move, his mouth forming the words: “Andromeda, right?”

His eyes are on mine for the first time ever, and it forces me to grasp the cotton of my sleep shorts. “My—my friends call me Andie.”

A smile lights up his face, displaying confidence he was missing two minutes ago. “Are we friends?”

There’s no cockiness in the way he says it, no flirtatious linger in his words. Just a pure, honest question, and I wonder if he’s as desperate for company as I am. Because that’s all this can ever be, regardless of how his presence makes my heart pound. “Are we not friends?”

Another graceful smile, before he spins on his heels. I watch his back as he retreats to the balcony, only to stop on the first step and look over his shoulder at me. “I’m Noah, by the way.”

Noah.

Noah.

Noah.

The boy’s name rings in my head while heat forms in my cheeks… the same time my stomach drops. I quickly finish my task, head back into the darkness of my house while I try to ignore the memories of the last time a boy made me feel this way.

His name? Matteo Rossi.

And, he too, was my neighbor.