Sunlit summer moving

The sun slipped through my blinds, brushing my face with warmth that pulled me reluctantly from sleep. I stretched, the scent of summer air drifting through the open window, carrying hints of freshly mowed grass and the faint aroma of the neighbor's hydrangeas, plump and blue like little clouds. I stayed for a moment in the soft morning light, my mind replaying a brief text conversation from the night before—a simple "See you tomorrow?" followed by Mike's equally simple "Looking forward to it."

I had never anticipated a sequel to our story. We had been a chapter of my life I’d assumed was finished, a beautifully written but self-contained volume I would occasionally pull from the shelf to reread, but never one I expected to continue. His return to the neighborhood, after all this time, felt less like a new beginning and more like a ghost suddenly sitting down at my kitchen counter.

I moved toward the kitchen, the cool wood floors a welcome shock under my feet. The first thing I did was set about breakfast, a ritual I found comfort in. I laid five strips of bacon on the skillet, listening to the happy, greasy song as the pan filled with sizzling fat. I then carefully cracked three fresh eggs into a bowl, whisking them until they were a uniform pale yellow. The scent of bacon filled the room, and I added the eggs to the pan, stirring them slowly until they formed soft, buttery curds. After removing the bacon and eggs, I pressed a few slices of bread into the hot grease, letting them crisp up and soak in the rich flavor. I didn’t bother setting the table; instead, I stood at the counter, fork in hand, savoring each bite. It was the small domesticity of a life I had built for myself, piece by piece. But thoughts of Mike crept in, uninvited but not unwelcome. I thought of our conversation yesterday, the way he smiled when he mentioned his SUV, a small, wry curve of his lips that was exactly how I remembered it. He’d seemed… different. Older, maybe. More settled. The chaos that had always swirled around him, the restless energy, seemed to have been replaced by a quiet, determined calm. It was a good look on him.

By the time I finished, I had decided I’d walk over to Mike’s to see if he wanted any help with settling in. I didn’t bother grabbing keys or my wallet; the house was only a short walk, barely a couple hundred feet through the summer-warmed grass to his new front door. My feet carried me over the familiar path. I could see his large, dark SUV parked out front, its back hatch a gaping maw as he adjusted a few things inside. He was wearing an old t-shirt from a local brewery we used to frequent, and my chest gave a little, unexpected flutter.

“Hey,” I said lightly, keeping my tone casual, as if seeing him again after all these years was no big deal. “Need a hand with anything?”

Mike looked up, and a wave of relief and a wide smile crossed his face. “Actually, yeah. If you don’t mind, a few boxes from the garage could use another set of hands. They’re a bit heavier than I thought.”

We moved at a steady rhythm, carrying boxes from the SUV to the garage and then to the house. Nothing chaotic, nothing rushed—just two people falling into a comfortable cooperation. The air was thick with the scent of cardboard and Mike’s understated cologne. We worked in a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of our feet on the pavement, until he finally broke it.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He leaned against the open hatch of the SUV, wiping sweat from his brow.

“I could say the same,” I replied, taking a gulp of water from the bottle he’d handed me. “You still can’t lift more than two boxes at a time without complaining.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “You’ve got the lighter boxes, obviously,” he joked as I lifted a particularly heavy one labeled ‘BOOKS.’

“I’m saving you from injury,” I said, grinning. “You can thank me later.”

“Oh, I will,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I’m a big believer in showing my gratitude.”

Once the boxes were inside, I paused to catch my breath and noticed a photo lying on a small table near the entryway. I picked it up carefully, my fingers tracing the outline of a simple wooden frame. It was Mike and two children. A girl with wide, curious eyes and a boy with a mischievous smile, both with a smattering of freckles across their noses. They were standing on a beach, waves lapping at their ankles. He saw me studying it.

“Those are Sydney and Dixon,” he said quietly, his voice softening. “Eight and six.”

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral, but inside a complicated mix of emotions roiled. We had already established my feelings about kids, and Mike respected that. My decision not to have them wasn’t something I ever hid, and it had been one of the many reasons we had drifted apart all those years ago. It was a chasm that was too wide to bridge. And yet, seeing this photo, seeing the clear love in his eyes as he looked at them, a small, sharp pang of something—jealousy? regret?—pierced through my carefully constructed composure. I didn’t press him for more. The unspoken understanding between us was enough.

“You know, I’m feeling pretty grimy,” I said, setting the photo back down, the image of his family still seared into my mind. “How about we take a shower break? I’ll head back to my place, and you can take a quick one here. Then we can do lunch at my place?”

He agreed with a nod. “Sounds good. I’m starving.”

I headed home to shower, and the cool water felt like a balm on my skin after the morning's work. I put on a fresh, comfortable t-shirt and shorts. Feeling refreshed, I returned to my kitchen and laid out the ingredients for sandwiches—fresh bread, deli meats, a platter of different cheeses, a bowl of chips, and a couple cans of soda. Mike showed up a few minutes later, looking equally refreshed. His eyes lit up. “The full spread,” he said, grabbing a slice of turkey. “You always did know how to do lunch right.”

I got to work assembling mine while Mike did the same, stacking his sandwich impossibly high. The morning had been warm, and we both appreciated the simple pleasure of sitting at the table, eating, and chatting. Conversation drifted from light teasing about our work pace to observations about the neighborhood, finally landing on memories from years ago. We talked about a disastrous camping trip where our tent collapsed in a downpour and a time we got lost in a city we’d only been to once. The shared memories felt like a language only we understood, a secret shorthand we had never forgotten.

“You haven’t changed much,” Mike said with a smirk as I laughed at one of his jokes.

“I could say the same,” I replied, taking a bite of my sandwich. “You’re still the only person who can make me laugh so hard I can’t breathe.”

Lunch passed easily, accompanied by laughter and stories neither of us had told in years. Afterward, we returned to his house, the boxes and tasks waiting patiently for us. The afternoon was a blur of unpacking, arranging furniture, and a surprising amount of cleaning. We hung up a large, framed map of the world in his living room, something I remembered he’d always wanted. We worked side by side, our hands occasionally brushing, a spark of electricity passing between us each time. The rhythm was easy and natural, as if we had never stopped.

By mid-afternoon, I pulled out my phone and texted Aditi about bringing dinner over to my new neighbor’s house later.

“Cute?” she asked, a single word that carried a world of meaning.

“Yes,” I typed back quickly, a little surprised by the honesty of my own admission.

“Okay, I’ll bring it by,” she responded, and I knew she’d be full of questions.

We continued working, moving boxes, setting up furniture, and arranging things inside the house, all with a rhythm that felt both productive and strangely comforting. Around 6:30, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, and Aditi asked what time she should deliver dinner.

“7:15,” I replied.

“Okay, see you then,” she texted back.

I turned to Mike. “Dinner’s coming at 7:15. I say we stop around then so we can both get a shower and get set up. I’ll go home to shower, and you can take one here, and I'll come back afterward for dinner.”

He agreed with a nod. “Sounds like a plan. I’m just about to call it a day anyway.”

I headed home to shower while he took a quick shower at his house. The air of the early evening was cooler now, but still comfortably summer-warm, and I felt refreshed afterward. I put on a simple sundress and tied my hair back, feeling a little self-conscious. This wasn’t a date. It was just two old friends having dinner. Still, I wanted to look nice.

Returning to Mike’s place at seven, we began setting up the kitchen with paper plates and plastic utensils in preparation for Aditi’s arrival. He had a brand new coffee machine, and he made us both a fresh cup. “I’m still working out the kinks,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. “But I think it’s pretty good.”

He was right. It was a perfect cup of coffee, rich and smooth, and as we sipped it, the doorbell rang. Mike and I answered together. He invited Aditi in, and she brought in the bags of food. She gave me a knowing look and a hug, then turned to Mike with a bright smile. “You must be the famous Mike,” she said.

“I don’t know about famous,” he said, laughing. “But I’m Mike. It’s nice to meet you, Aditi. And thank you so much for the dinner.”

I offered her money, but she declined politely, insisting that helping was enough. We thanked her, walked her to the door, and wished her a good night. As she left, she gave me one last glance over her shoulder, a silent promise to get all the details later.

Back at the kitchen table, we served ourselves dinner. Conversation shifted naturally to church. Mike asked which church I attended, and I extended an invitation for him to join me the next day. He accepted readily.

“Sounds good,” he said, smiling. “I was thinking about finding a place to go, but I wasn’t sure where to start. I’d love to join you.”

The rest of the evening was easy, comfortable, filled with small details: the clinking of utensils, the shared enjoyment of food, and the quiet pleasure of being in each other’s company. We laughed, teased, and talked about everything from local events to our shared memories of the past. There was no pretense, no awkwardness, just a sense of returning to a place we had always belonged.

We finished dinner, and Mike took the empty plates to the trash. “You know,” he said, turning to me, “I forgot how good it felt to just… be with you. No pressure. No games. Just us.”

My heart did another of its little flutters. “Yeah,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Me too.”

As the night drew on, I felt a sense of ease and familiarity, a reminder of the deep connection that had never fully disappeared between us. The house was finally quiet, the boxes a silent testament to a day of hard work. Sydney and Dixon were absent, and that suited the flow of the evening perfectly—just Mike and me, rediscovering our rhythm together, sharing a meal, and talking like we had all the time in the world. As I stood up to excuse myself, Mike reached out and gently took my hand, pulling me just a little closer. He leaned in and kissed me, and the kiss lasted for what felt like hours, though it was only a few minutes—a slow, tender reconnection that spoke of all the years that had passed and the possibility of a future. When I finally pulled away, my heart was racing. "Good night, Mike," I whispered, and then I turned and walked out the door.