The wheels of Kara's car crunched over the gravel driveway like a slow, tired sigh. The small house sat quiet under the weight of the late afternoon sun, its pale-blue shutters faded, the roof a little worn, but still standing—like her.
She turned off the engine but didn't move. Her fingers clutched the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
"Just breathe," she muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
Her chest rose, then fell. Slowly.
Coming back home wasn't supposed to feel like defeat, but it did.
The porch steps looked smaller than she remembered. The swing still hung from the corner beam, one rope frayed but holding on. She stepped out of the car and stretched her legs, rolling her shoulders like she could shake off the weight of the past year with one long exhale.
The scent of pine trees mixed with the faintest trace of wood smoke. Familiar. Unnervingly so.
It was all still here.
The quiet streets.
The stillness.
The house her grandmother left her after she passed.
She opened the trunk and pulled out two bags, then her knife roll — the only part of her that hadn't felt like a failure lately. Her tools. Her trade. Her escape.
Dragging the bags up the steps, the old wood creaked beneath her feet like a welcome — or a warning. She paused at the door. The key trembled slightly in her fingers.
Then click.
The lock gave way.
Dust greeted her like an old friend. The sunlight poured in through a cracked windowpane, casting golden slants across the floor. She set her bags down gently, trying not to disturb the silence that had settled like a layer of ash.
She unpacked in slow, quiet movements, almost like she didn't want to be noticed — by the house, by the air, or by herself.
In the kitchen, she found her grandmother's old kettle still on the stove. She ran her hand over it like a memory.
"I'll make it work this time," she whispered. To who, she didn't know.
She didn't think about her ex — not really.
Not his harsh silences, or the way he'd sigh every time she talked about opening her own place.
Not the way he'd said, "You're just not enough, Kara."
Even though that sentence had been living under her skin ever since.
She blinked it away.
Outside the kitchen window, through the lace curtain, movement caught her eye.
A guy — tall, broad-shouldered, T-shirt clinging to his back — was unloading something heavy from a pickup truck next door. His hair was messy, dark, damp at the ends from sweat. He moved with the lazy strength of someone used to physical work.
Then he paused, stretching one arm across his chest.
Kara's eyes widened when he glanced toward her window.
She stepped back instinctively, heart skipping.
"Great, Kara. Spying on the neighbor now?"
That evening, just before the sky tipped fully into dusk, she stepped out onto the porch. The air was cooler now, the sky streaked with soft gold and lavender.
She leaned against the porch post, arms wrapped around herself. Not because she was cold — but because that was the only way she knew how to hold herself together lately.
Then she heard it.
"Hey."
Her eyes flicked up, surprised. The guy from next door was leaning on the shared fence, one arm slung casually across the top plank. A towel hung from his back pocket, and his hands were still smudged with grease.
He wasn't smiling, not fully. But there was something in his expression — curiosity, maybe. Recognition.
"You're back," he said.
She furrowed her brow. "Do I… know you?"
He shrugged, shifting his weight slightly. "Not really. But I've lived next door for ten years. Gavriel."
The name hit something in her memory. A skinny kid who used to skateboard up and down the street, always with a busted lip or scraped knee. But this wasn't a kid anymore. His jawline was sharp now, his voice deeper, his gaze steady.
"Kara," she said cautiously. "I used to live here… a long time ago."
"I know."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Your grandma made the best pies in the neighborhood. I used to trade her blackberries from our garden for slices."
A pause.
Something uncoiled in her chest. Something small, but real.
She nodded slowly. "She used to call them 'bribe pies.'"
That made him chuckle. "Sounds like her."
Then silence again — not awkward, just quiet. Like neither of them knew if they should say more or leave it there.
"I'm fixing up the place," he said finally. "If you need anything. Tools, help… or someone to kill a spider."
Kara let out a short breath — not quite a laugh, but close.
"Thanks," she said, turning toward the door. "I'll let you know if the spiders declare war."
She didn't look back, but she could feel his eyes follow her until the screen door clicked shut behind her.
Inside, she leaned against the door and exhaled.
Her heart was beating faster than it should have been.
"Don't even start, Kara."
She wasn't here for anyone.
Especially not a next-door neighbor with kind eyes and grease on his hands.
But even as she told herself that, her fingers drifted to the window, brushing the curtain aside…
…just enough to peek..