Chapter 1: The Neighbourhood Nerd
The first time Amaya Snow saw Aris Rowon, he was dissecting a sunbeam.
Well, that was the romantic version she would later write in her diary. The less poetic truth was that he was sitting on his front porch, scowling at a thick textbook as if the words themselves had personally offended him. A slat of afternoon light cut across the page, but he seemed oblivious to its warmth, his entire being focused on the dense print.
Amaya, perched on her windowsill with her knees tucked to her chin, was captivated.
He was exactly the kind of character she would have invented for one of her stories.
The Brooding Intellectual. The Untouchable Genius. He wore a simple grey t-shirt and jeans, but on him, they looked like a uniform. His dark hair was a glorious, unruly mess, as if he'd been running his hands through it in frustration. And his glasses… they gave him an air of such serious, unapproachable intensity that her sixteen-year-old heart did a complicated, fluttery rhythm against her ribs.
"Amaya! Are you unpacking or are you building a nest in that windowsill?" her mother's voice floated up the stairs.
"Unpacking!" she called back, not moving an inch. This was far more important than deciding where to put her collection of fantasy novels.
Her eyes stayed fixed on him, watching the way he furrowed his brow in concentration. His lips barely moved as he read, and she wondered if he ever stopped thinking. Did he have time for anything other than his books? Was there a part of him that wanted to take a break from the seriousness of it all and just… laugh?
"He looks lonely," Amaya murmured, mostly to herself.
Her mother's voice broke through her thoughts again.
"He looks busy, Amaya. Don't go bothering him with your fairy tales and wild theories. That boy is on a path, and it doesn't include being accosted by the daydreaming girl next door."
The words stung a little, but they didn't land where her mother intended. Amaya wasn't put off by the idea of being a distraction. If anything, it only solidified her resolve. The boy next door was a puzzle, and puzzles were her thing.
She leaned back a little, resting her head against the cool window frame. Her fingers traced the edges of the windowsill, her mind racing with possibilities. What kind of stories did someone like him have? What was it like to live inside his head, where everything had to make sense, every decision had a logical reason behind it?
Her mother's voice interrupted her again, this time with a plate in hand. "Here, take these over next door. Thank Mrs. Rowon for the casserole. And be quick about it. No daydreaming."
Amaya's heart skipped a beat. The moment had arrived. Her chest felt tight with excitement as she accepted the plate of cookies from her mother. They were still warm, the chocolate chips melting just enough to leave little pockets of gooey goodness.
She smoothed down her favorite yellow sundress, taking a moment to make sure it wasn't wrinkled. There was no time to waste. She had a mission.
As she crossed the two front lawns that felt like an entire ocean between their houses, she tried to calm the racing thoughts in her head. What if he didn't like cookies? What if she said something stupid? What if he didn't even notice her at all?
She shook her head, trying to dismiss the nerves. This was it—the moment she would be brave. She would speak to him, and everything would be fine.
He was still there when she arrived, sitting in the exact same spot on the porch. His eyes were locked on the textbook, his expression intense. He didn't look up as she approached, and for a brief, horrifying second, Amaya wondered if he even knew she was there.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice faltering just a little.
The sound of her voice made him look up, and for a moment, Amaya froze.
His light hazel eyes, sharp and calculating, met hers. Flecks of gold caught the afternoon sun, softening their color without warming their expression. They were warm and unreadable at once—clear enough to feel deliberate, deep enough to make her feel like he could see straight through her.
She held out the plate, a little too eagerly. "Hi! I'm Amaya. We're your new neighbors, and my mom wanted to thank you for the casserole. She made some chocolate chip cookies. I thought you might like them."
He blinked at the plate for a moment, then his gaze flickered back to her face. She could almost feel him cataloging her: the yellow sundress, the overzealous smile, the plate of cookies she was practically shoving into his hands.
"Thank you," he said, his voice low and flat. He didn't sound ungrateful, exactly, but there was no warmth in his tone. "That's… unnecessary, but kind."
Amaya's cheeks warmed, and she realized she might be talking too fast. "It's no trouble at all! My mom loves to bake. I can bring some over anytime, if you want. You know, cookies, or—uh, whatever you like! I'm pretty good at muffins too, so…"
Her voice trailed off, and she felt a sudden, acute embarrassment. Why couldn't she just be normal for once? Why did she always sound so... so eager?
His gaze flickered briefly over her shoulder, toward the street, and then back at her, as though he were looking for an escape from the conversation.
"That won't be necessary," he said, cutting her off with a polite but unmistakable finality. "We wouldn't want to impose on your mother's time."
"Oh! Right." Amaya's hands fidgeted with the plate. "Of course. It's just—well, I like to walk over here. It's nice and peaceful. Your porch is very… porch-like." She cringed as the words left her mouth. "Porch-like? Ugh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
He didn't react to her awkwardness. He simply watched her, those light hazel eyes steady and unreadable, as if emotion were something he preferred to analyze rather than feel.
"Goodbye," he said, his tone final, dismissing her as easily as if she were a brief interruption in his day.
"Right. Uh, bye." Amaya forced a smile, but it felt as though it might break any second.
She turned quickly, walking back to her house with her head down, her shoulders hunched in a mixture of disappointment and self-doubt. She hadn't even made him smile. She hadn't even made him notice her.
But then, halfway up the front steps, she stopped. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she glanced back over her shoulder.
He was still sitting there, textbook in hand, the plate of cookies sitting untouched on the railing beside him. The sunlight hit his profile just right, softening the sharp angles of his face. For a brief moment, his eyes caught the light again—hazel brightening to gold before he looked back down at the page.
He was still tense, still distant. Still a mystery.
But something about that fleeting warmth made her smile, just a little.
He was a puzzle. And no one ever solved a puzzle by giving up after the first try.
Amaya took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the challenge settle in her chest. He may have dismissed her this time, but that only made her more determined. She had never been one to back down when faced with a puzzle she couldn't immediately solve.
She turned away, but this time she didn't feel defeated.
She felt… ready.
The game was on.