Chapter 2
Ethan
Mornings are the one part of the day that makes sense.
The house wakes slowly, the way it should.
Kettle on with a soft click. Lunchbox open on the counter, everything lined up — bread, knife, apple, containers in a neat row.
Early summer light spills through the kitchen window in a wide, warm stripe, catching dust motes drifting lazily in the air.
The tiles under my feet are cool from the night, a slight relief before the day heats up.
I slice the apple into thin, fan-shaped pieces, no bruises—the way Lily insists tastes better. She’s probably right. I’ll never tell her that.
The fridge hums steadily. Outside, a bird calls, something bright and too cheerful for this hour. The house is otherwise quiet.
Then I hear Lily: soft, uneven footsteps coming down the hallway, socks sliding because she refuses to pick her feet up in the morning.
She appears in the doorway, hair a dark, tangled halo, hoodie half-zipped despite the warm air, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it’s already defeated her. Twelve going on thirty.
“Dad?” Her voice is still thick with sleep.
“Mm?” I slide the slices into a small container and snap the lid on.
“That lady.” She steps further in, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “The one who moved in next door last night.”
Her eyebrows lift — worry and curiosity blended together. She gets that from her mother.
“Did you see her hair?” Lily asks. “It’s… neon pink.”
I suppress a sigh. “I noticed.”
“Who is she?”
“No idea.” I close the lunchbox, the sound sharp in the soft morning quiet. Order restored. Routine back in place.
Lily leans against the counter, settling in like she’s preparing to interrogate me. “Do you think she’s running away from something?”
“She’s probably just a city runaway,” I say, handing her the box. “Or one of those influencers who films everything they do. New trend.”
“Do influencers move to the middle of nowhere?” She narrows her eyes like she’s catching me in a lie.
I shrug. “Maybe she needed quiet.”
Lily snorts. “Dad, her hair is loud enough to scare the owls.”
I don’t even try to argue.
Fair point.
Still, it’s not my business. Not our problem. I prefer neighbors who don’t exist.
I sort out Lily’s braid, smoothing down the flyaways, tightening the elastic at the end. Her hair’s already slipping out as it always does, but she likes when I try.
“Bus’ll be here in two,” I murmur.
She tilts her head back and beams at me, cheeks still round with childhood, eyes too knowing for her age. That quick, bright smile she also inherited from her mother, and it’s sharp little arrow, straight to the ribs every time.
“You worry too much.”
I don’t respond. Not aloud.
She has no idea. Best she doesn’t.
We step out onto the porch. The early summer morning is cool in a way that won’t last. The air is crisp with the hint of heat coiled beneath it, waiting for noon to strike. Dew clings to the grass. The sky is pale, almost white, the kind that promises a clean day. A safe one. Predictable.
Lily bounces on the balls of her feet, energy finally catching up with her. Her backpack thumps against her side as she jogs down the drive, shoes kicking gravel loose. She does a little hop at the end — she always does — like she’s greeting the world instead of just a school bus.
The bus rounds the corner with a mechanical growl, then brakes with a long hiss, stirring dust and the smell of warm diesel. Lily climbs the steps, turns back immediately, and presses her face to the window to find me.
She waves like she thinks I might not wave back.
I raise a hand.
Hold it there until the bus pulls away, gets smaller, then disappears around the bend in the trees.
The quiet that follows is immediate.
And too sharp.
Too complete.
I exhale, slowly. Trying to let the morning settle back into place.
Then a sound — faint at first, insistent. A phone ringing. Not mine.
Coming from next door.
It cuts through the stillness like a blade, high and relentless, shattering the pleasant monotony I rely on. A reminder that someone else is here now. Someone unpredictable, disruptive, loud, even when they’re not trying to be.
The sound drills straight into the center of the quiet morning, refusing to be ignored.
I step closer to the edge of the porch, frowning. The phone keeps ringing. The shrill is unrelenting, and I finally catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
The door of the house next door swings open.
She bursts out like she’s been shot from a cannon.
Pink hair blazes in the morning sun, brighter than any natural light should allow, tangled and messy, tufts sticking every which way, like she wrestled with her own pillow and lost. The oversized knit jumper swallows her small frame, sleeves past her wrists, hem brushing against thighs that are bare, unshielded from the gravel and dust. She squints against the sun, hand raised to shield her eyes, like daylight itself is an assault she’s barely willing to endure.
I take a step closer, almost involuntarily, but it’s not any of that that pins my gaze.
It’s her legs.
Bare. Tanned. Inked.
The tattoo winds from her ankle in a flourish of florals, twisting upward under the hem of the jumper, disappearing out of sight, and I can’t help but notice, not fully by choice, the way it hints at something hidden.
My mind lingers, stubborn, reluctant. Wonder how far it goes, what else she’s covering, and why the thought irritates me.
She’s barefoot, and the porch gravel bites at her skin.
She’s half-running, half-stumbling down the steps, scrambling toward her car, arms flailing a little with the momentum.
The car door slams, then swings open. She dives into the passenger seat, shoving aside a jumble of bags, finally finding the phone.
She answers it, her voice rough from sleep, low and irritable but undeniably alive.
Then she looks up.
Her eyes find me.
A flicker of surprise, maybe embarrassment, or perhaps just the faint recognition that someone was watching her. Her gaze holds for the fraction of a second that feels longer, and she lifts a hand in a small, cautious wave.
I don’t wave back.
I don’t move.
I just watch, quiet, contained, trying not to catalog every errant strand of hair, every curve of ankle, every thread of the chaotic energy radiating off her.
She exists in daylight now, and it makes no sense at all.
Daylight doesn’t tame her. It amplifies her.
Pretty, in a way that’s distracting, unhelpful.
Instead, I turn and step into my house, closing the door on the warm summer air and on her. Inside, everything is exactly where I left it. Ordered. Quiet. The hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the wall clock, the soft morning light spilling across the kitchen floor.
All as it should be.
But the image sticks anyway. Pink hair, messy and electric, catching the sun like it’s daring me to look away.
She’s precisely the kind of trouble I don’t need.
I step back from the door. Run a hand over my face. Shake it off. Focus on tidying the kitchen and the neat stack of containers. Morning is meant to be simple. Predictable. Safe.
And yet, something has shifted. She’s here. And she’s not going anywhere.