It was late September, the kind of evening where the air turned golden and sharp, and the neighborhood smelled like cut grass and someone's dinner cooking two houses down.

You were sitting on your front step, backpack at your feet, scrolling through your phone with the kind of bored indifference that only a Tuesday afternoon could inspire. The quiet was familiar. Comfortable.

Until it wasn't.

A car door slammed somewhere to your left. Then laughter—bright, overlapping, the kind that bounced off the pavement like it owned the street.

He paused at the edge of your lawn.