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I bury my face in my hands. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Why? I told him to bring a few of his player friends.

“No!” I say, way too quickly.

Kira smirks. “Still wild that your sister dated the hot neighbor.”

“I know. Trust me, I wish I didn’t remember every single detail.”

“You said they went to prom, right?”

“Prom and everything,” I mutter. “He was her boyfriend for like most of their senior year. He was at our dinner table multiple times.”

“That makes this even better!”

“No. That makes this the beginning of my personal ‘ick’ documentary.”

She shrugs. “Well, he should still come. And bring friends. We could use some Detroit Acers eye candy.”

I try to go back to my flashcards, but it’s no use. My brain’s stuck on that smirk, the curve of his jaw, the way his voice wrapped around “Little Fields” like it was a secret only he knew.

He looked good.

No, he lookedunfair.Older. Broader. Confident in a way that no one should be before 10 a.m.

And now Kira has invited him into our living room.

He'll be there holding a red solo cup.

God help me.

***

An hour later, while Kira’s doing some kind of pre-party sparkle cleanse in the bathroom, I get a text.

ALLISON: Did you move in okay?

I stare at the screen.

I type:Yeah. The building is nice. Currently unpacking.

I don’t type:Nate Jones lives next door.

Instead, I slide the phone facedown.

It’s fine. Nothing’s happening. We said maybe ten words. He probably forgot already.

Except he didn’t look like he forgot.

And I definitely didn’t.

***

The first week in Detroit is a blur of caffeine, cardboard, and constitutional law.

Kira works late most nights, so I take over the kitchen table with textbooks and color-coded tabs. She FaceTimes dates while I wear noise-canceling headphones and highlight every third line out of spite. I work during the day as a law clerk at a law firm. In the evening, I rotate between the library and our apartment for study space, but nothing blocks out the noise like Nate’s existence does.

Because I keepseeinghim.