Chapter Text
Jeremiah pushed open the glass door to the building and stepped into the dim, softly lit lobby, the faint hum of the air conditioner greeting him like an old friend. It was one of those modern Boston buildings – sterile, polished, a little too perfect. But he’d grown used to it. The quiet hit him immediately, seeping into his bones with the comforting heaviness of routine.
Maybe that was why he’d chosen it in the first place. God, he needed the quiet. He’d known that when he finally decided to buy an apartment for himself three years ago.
After Denise had moved to San Francisco with Taylor and Steven four years earlier, he’d stayed at her place for a while – too long, probably. It had never really felt like his. Too many memories, too many voices echoing in the walls.
This place was different. Convenient. Somewhere he could be anonymous. A place where no one expected anything from him except for the occasional ‘Hi’ in the elevator.
The ten hours at his restaurant that day was full of chaos. The walk-in freezer was broken, two bartenders calling out, a vendor showing up late with wilted herbs and a bad attitude. By the time dinner rush finally slowed, his tongue was numb from tasting sauces, his voice was hoarse from calling out orders, and he could practically feel the steam and garlic embedded in his pores.
He loved his job. It kept him busy. And it was safe. And at the end of the night, he liked coming home to the quiet. No noise. No drama. No reminders.
He rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, keys already between his fingers, the lingering smell of garlic and butter still clinging to his clothes, mind half elsewhere. The doors slid open, and he stepped out, walked two steps towards his apartment and froze.
Boxes. Dozens of them. Stacked right in front of the apartment next to his, towering in uneven columns like they’d appeared overnight.
He had not expected that at all. The apartment had been empty for three months – and he was used to that. He’d barely noticed when his last neighbour, a quiet grad student who left early and came home late, moved out. They’d nodded at each other in passing, maybe twice. Three times, max. That was the extent of their relationship.
He blinked hard, like maybe the image would disappear. But no. The boxes were still there, covered in neat handwriting – names of rooms, little arrows, symbols marking which side was up. Not familiar enough to read, but familiar enough to unsettle him.
No. It couldn’t be –
Before he could even form the thought fully, the door swung open. And his world tilted.
Isabel Conklin.
Belly, the girl he had known all his life. He hadn’t seen her since he was 21. Hadn’t spoken to her since he was 22. And now at 27, he was frozen in the middle of a hallway.
She froze too, her hand still on the doorknob. Her hair, shorter now, framed a face he had once memorized. She wore an oversized navy sweatshirt, faded cutoff shorts, and the dazed look of someone whose entire life had just been upended by one unexpected collision with the past.
Her eyes widened slightly, like she couldn’t quite believe he was real. “Jere,” she whispered. Hearing his name in her voice felt wrong. Like it belonged to another lifetime.
He had imagined this moment before - when Taylor or Steven would casually mention her in conversation. But imagination never felt like this. Never felt like being punched in the chest.
“Belly,” he said, and the name slipped out before he could contain it.
The hallway buzzed, fluorescent lights humming too loudly. He was suddenly aware of everything around them – the way the carpet muted sound, the way his heart was pounding like he’d just run up the stairs instead of taken the elevator.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, voice was thin around the edges, like she was holding something back.
“Yeah,” he managed, keeping his tone neutral, almost cold. “Me neither. Didn’t know you were moving to Boston.”
She shifted her weight, brushing her hair behind her ear. The same nervous habit he knew she had for most of her life. The sight of it hit him harder than he expected. “Just got here today,” she said, voice careful. Then, almost like an afterthought, she gestured behind her. “4B”
Of course. Of course, the universe would do this to him. Apparently, the odds of becoming the neighbour of your ex-fiancé were high – 1 in 200 units. It was terrible comic timing.
“4A,” Jeremiah pointed at his apartment. “What are the odds?”
The silence that followed was thick, stretched tight like a rubber band. It rang with everything they didn’t say - everything from the wedding-that-wasn’t to the late-night drives at Cousins to the way she’d looked at him that last night before everything shattered.
“It’s been a long time. How-how have you been?” she asked softly, breaking the silence. "How's the restaurant?”
“Busy,” he said simply, feeling his chest tighten. “Good. Keeps me occupied.”
He wasn’t lying, not entirely. He had thrown himself into his work for years.
But it felt like a hollow shield. Her eyes flickered, reading between the lines the way she always used to. She’d once been able to decipher his moods better than anyone. That thought alone made his chest tighten painfully. He wanted to run into his apartment, but a part of him - a reckless, foolish part - was rooted in place, unwilling to leave.
She moved to reach for a box, but the way her arms strained said the thing weighed more than she wanted to admit.
“Do you need help with the boxes?” he asked impulsively, before he could stop himself.
Her head snapped up, surprise flashing across her face. And another emotion – maybe gratitude or annoyance – passing fleetingly across her face. “No. I’ve got it,” she said, though her hands shifted slightly as she adjusted the weight of the nearest box.
He could see her fingers slipping slightly on the cardboard. He wanted to argue, to insist, to bridge the gap with action, but he held back. It would be too much. Too soon. But he didn’t leave.
Finally, she sighed softly, her voice breaking the tension a little. “WellI should probably get these boxes inside,” she said, moving toward the door.
Jeremiah hesitated, then stepped forward. “Here,” he said, catching the box she had been struggling with. Their hands brushed briefly - a spark of friction, of something more dangerous than either of them wanted to acknowledge.
They walked inside her apartment together, the silence between them loud in a way that made his ears ring. It smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. Clean. Empty. He set the box down in the foyer and stepped back immediately, putting distance between them like distance might save him.
“Thanks,” she said softly, her voice careful, almost fragile.
“Sure,” he replied, voice tight, and not entirely truthful.
Another pause. A long, heavy pause, filled with words they would never say aloud. Finally, she turned toward her door. “I’ll get the rest inside,” she said, forcing herself to move. “See you around.”
He only nodded, then escaped into the hallway before he did something stupid. Like asking her why she was here. Or if she was staying long. Or if she’d missed him.
He walked into his apartment and leaned against his door, eyes closed for a moment, trying to convince himself that he could handle this, that living next to her would be no more than an inconvenient coincidence.
But he knew the truth. It would never be simple again.
“Nope,” he muttered. “Absolutely not. This isn’t happening.”
He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and drank half of it in one go. Anything to ground himself. He needed to tell someone.
So, he texted Steven.
Jeremiah: You’re never going to believe who just moved in next door.
Three dots appeared. Vanished. And then appeared again.
Steven: Do NOT say who I think you’re going to say.
Jeremiah: Yep. Your sister is right next door.
Jeremiah: Don’t tell me she is shifting to Boston why don’t ya?
Steven: LMAO. Did you talk?
Jeremiah: Unfortunately.
Steven: Do I want details or no?
Jeremiah: Trust Me. You don’t want details.
Steven: How bad was it?
Jeremiah paused. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Normal’ would not be even close to describing how it was. Then typed:
Jeremiah: Awkward as fuck.
Steven: Yeah, that tracks.
Jeremiah: How is this my life?
He tossed the phone onto the couch and dropped down beside it, running a hand through his hair.
Belly sat on the edge of the sofa in her new apartment, staring at the boxes she had yet to unpack. The room was a mess of flattened cardboard, packing peanuts, and the faint smell of the moving van that had just departed. Her stomach twisted in knots. She hugged her knees to her chest, replaying the encounter like a movie on a loop.
She had expected awkwardness, yes. She had expected tension. But she had not expected how he’d seemed both the same and entirely different. Or the way their hands brushed when he helped her with that box and how her pulse reacted like she was seventeen again.
She cursed herself for feeling anything at all. She had told Taylor that the past was behind her. But standing there, across the narrow hallway, staring into those piercing blue eyes, she realized that maybe her own assurances had been shallow.
She glanced at her phone, thinking about texting Taylor, needing the comfort of someone who had always understood the complexities of her heart. But her fingers hovered, unwilling to reach for the screen. Talking about him would make it real. And she wasn’t ready for that yet.
Instead, she let her mind wander back to simpler times, when she and Jeremiah had been inseparable. Small memories surfaced unbidden - the late-night coffee runs in cousins, knocking on the wall when they were younger, sharing horror stories at night. And then, inevitably, the shadow of the wedding, Conrad confessing two days before, her getting confused, Jeremiah saying that they can’t get married after hearing all that.
She had not moved here to reignite old wounds. She knew Boston was his home, and he was here. But she still thought that this area of the city would not be where she would see him.
Her chest tightened. Why now? Why this building of all places?
She shook her head and decided to start unpacking. She could not leave it for the next week because she was starting her new job at the college on Monday - helping the volleyball coach. She loved that this opportunity got her close to something she loves, even though she can’t play anymore.
Her phone buzzed. She checked and it was a text from Taylor. “Of course,” Belly sighed. The hope that she would not have to talk to Taylor about this tonight is gone. She opened the text.
Taylor: B! How is Boston!? Any neighbour troubles?
Belly chuckled.
Belly: You already know, don’t you?
Taylor: Guilty as charged.
Taylor: TELL ME EVERYTHING! STARTING WITH ARE YOU OKAY???
She hesitated.
Belly: I don’t know. He helped me move one of the boxes. It was awkward. Really awkward. I hated that it was awkward.
Taylor took some time to reply. Dots appeared and disappeared.
Taylor: Awkward because he was weird or awkward because you still have feelings???
Belly stared at the screen too long before responding.
Belly: He was distant. Different. I don’t know. But seeing him hit me harder than I thought it ever would.
Taylor: B…This feels like FATE.
Belly: It feels like a disaster waiting to happen.
Taylor: Well, you are going to call me tomorrow! Because I am invested now. THIS IS MY SUPER BOWL!!
Despite the chaos in her chest, Belly smiled.
Belly: Goodnight, Tay.
She tossed her phone aside, lay back on her mattress, and stared up at the ceiling.
The wall she shared with Jeremiah was quiet. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear something - footsteps, music - or if that would just make things worse
She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. Day one in Boston, and it was already a mess.