It’s been months since I last saw Gio Carrera. I didn’t plan to move next door to him, but here we are. When I first knocked on his door to say hello, the look he gave me was somewhere between disbelief and annoyance. He barely spoke, just muttered, “Welcome to the neighborhood,” and shut the door. I figured that was it. But tonight, everything changes. I hear a knock. I open the door, and Gio is standing there. He doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t have to. I step back, and he walks inside, his eyes locked on mine as he closes the door behind him. The air is heavy, the silence filled with years of tension. Neither of us moves at first. Then, as if on instinct, I pull him close. Our mouths meet – slow, searching, familiar. We barely make it to the bedroom. His hands roam over me, reclaiming every part of me that was once his. Clothes fall away, and the space between us disappears completely. It’s desperate but careful, like we’re making up for lost time. When we finally collapse beside each other, our breathing steadying, Gio turns to me. “Guess being neighbors isn’t so bad after all,” he says softly. And for once, I agree.
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