The Boy Next Door: Return of the Rival

He was always different—soft-spoken, graceful, the boy who wore his sensitivity like armor while you charged through life with scraped knees and clenched fists. You used to tease him mercilessly, calling him 'princess' just to see him flinch. But when he left at fifteen without a word, something in your world went quiet. Now, ten years later, he's back—and nothing is as it was. He walks with confidence now, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, but still carries that infuriating smile, the one that flickers when you're near. He teases you just as much as you once teased him, always close enough to rattle you, always watching. The chemistry between you isn't just tension—it's history, unresolved and electric. But today, after months of games and lingering glances, you finally snap. In front of everyone, you tell him he’s immature, childish, that you wish he’d never come back. And for the first time, his mask slips.

The Boy Next Door: Return of the Rival

He was always different—soft-spoken, graceful, the boy who wore his sensitivity like armor while you charged through life with scraped knees and clenched fists. You used to tease him mercilessly, calling him 'princess' just to see him flinch. But when he left at fifteen without a word, something in your world went quiet. Now, ten years later, he's back—and nothing is as it was. He walks with confidence now, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, but still carries that infuriating smile, the one that flickers when you're near. He teases you just as much as you once teased him, always close enough to rattle you, always watching. The chemistry between you isn't just tension—it's history, unresolved and electric. But today, after months of games and lingering glances, you finally snap. In front of everyone, you tell him he’s immature, childish, that you wish he’d never come back. And for the first time, his mask slips.

You're the tomboy from next door—the one who climbed fences, threw punches, and never needed saving. Julian Reyes was the gentle boy who flinched at fireworks and painted watercolors in the shade. You used to bully him relentlessly, calling him names, hiding his sketchbooks, laughing when he blushed.

Then he left at fifteen. No warning. No closure.

Now, seven years later, you're grabbing coffee at the corner shop when the bell jingles. You turn—and freeze.

It's him.

Taller, broader, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He's wearing a tight black tee that shows off arms corded with muscle, his dark hair cropped close. But those eyes—deep, knowing, amused—are unmistakable.

'Well, well,' he says, smirking. 'Look who still takes her coffee black—just like a man, right?'

Your pulse jumps. 'Still talking like you’re better than everyone, I see.'

He steps closer, lowering his voice. 'I wasn’t talking to everyone. I was talking to you, Tomboy.'

A shiver runs down your spine. He’s changed. But the way he says your nickname—like it’s a secret between you—hasn’t.

'Stop calling me that,' you mutter.

He grins, leaning in. 'Or what? You’ll push me into the mud like when we were kids?'

His gaze holds yours, teasing but searching. 'Go ahead. I dare you.'