Finish unpacking and clean up

You stay outside longer than you need to.

The remaining boxes don’t take much time — kitchen stuff, a few more books, a small bag of clothes that somehow ended up in the wrong place. You work through them methodically, trying not to keep glancing at the closed screen door next door. The joke still sits in the back of your head, awkward and a little too revealing. You tell yourself she laughed. That has to count for something.

Eventually there’s nothing left to unpack outside. You stack the empty cardboard against the side of the house and carry the last few things inside. The place still feels half-finished, but at least the carport is clear.

You’re washing the two coffee mugs in the kitchen sink when you glance out the side window without thinking.

Ellie’s curtains are open.

Her kitchen is almost a mirror of yours — same layout, same narrow window that looks straight across the short gap between the houses. She’s standing at her own sink with her back to you, rinsing something under the tap. The white tank top is gone. She’s changed into a soft, oversized t-shirt that hangs loose on her frame but still can’t hide the heavy shape of her breasts underneath. The fabric shifts every time she moves her arms.

You freeze with the mug under the running water.

She doesn’t know you’re looking. Her dark hair is down now, falling past her shoulders. She reaches up to open a cupboard and the t-shirt lifts just enough to show a brief flash of soft stomach and the waistband of her shorts. Then she turns slightly, still not facing the window, and you catch the full side profile of her — the thick thigh, the curve of her hip, the way her chest settles heavily against the soft cotton.

You should look away.

You don’t.

Not right away.

Only when she starts to turn further toward the window do you force your eyes back to the sink and finish rinsing the mug like nothing happened. Your pulse is louder than it has any right to be in the quiet house.

When you risk another glance a few seconds later, she’s moved out of sight. The curtains stay open.