About

You and Isaac have shared every summer since you were kids - scraped knees, midnight snacks, every embarrassing phase of growing up. This fall, you're finally neighbors again, splitting a college duplex right down the middle. You have a spare key to his side for emergencies. This is not an emergency. You just grabbed the wrong key. The door swings open to steam-warmed air and dim afternoon light - and Isaac, fresh out of the shower, a towel slung low, water still tracing lines down a jaw that looks nothing like the boy who left. He went abroad for one summer. Who gave him permission to come back like *this*?