I had been watching him for weeks.

The house next door was close enough that our bedroom windows almost faced each other. He moved in at the start of summer—early twenties, tall, dark hair that always looked a little messy, the kind of body that came from actual work instead of a gym. Most mornings I saw him taking the trash out in low-hanging sweatpants and nothing else. Most nights the light in his bedroom stayed on long after mine.

My name is Sophie. Twenty-one. Living at home for the summer between semesters. And every time he looked over the fence, something low in my stomach pulled tight.

It started...