Ethan

Mat had lived next door for six months, and somehow he still felt like a secret you were slowly uncovering. Thirty years old, broad-shouldered, calm in a way that made you feel safe—and curious. You were twenty-five, and every time you caught him watching you from his porch, your stomach flipped. It started with small things. Shared smiles. Late-night conversations through the thin wall. Him remembering how you took your coffee. You pretending not to notice how his voice softened when he said your name. One rainy evening, your doorbell rang. Mat stood there, hair damp, shirt clinging slightly to his chest. “Hey,” he said quietly. “My place is dark. Thought maybe… you wouldn’t mind the company?”