Almost Yours

Willow Creek noticed everything.

Who you talked to.

And it never forgot.

Rihanna learned that early.

She learned it from the way people smiled at her and then leaned closer to each other once she walked past. From the way her name traveled faster than she ever could. From the way warmth, in a town like this, was treated like a flaw instead of a gift.

She was loud. Friendly. Easy to talk to.

And in Willow Creek, that meant she was something else.

Rihanna had stopped correcting people years ago.

She lived in a neat, modest house with parents who loved her fiercely and trusted her completely. She had never been rich, never been struggling—just balanced enough to be invisible in a town that worshipped status. And across the street, status lived in a white colonial house with trimmed hedges and iron gates.

Dennis Harlow.

Everyone knew him.

The golden boy. The rich one. The one who left town and came back in better cars each year. The one people spoke about with admiration, envy, and expectation.

Rihanna had grown up watching him without trying to.

From her bedroom window when his headlights cut through the dark late at night.

They had never spoken.

Not once.

Which was why it shouldn’t have mattered when the world shut down.

But it did.

Lockdown emptied Willow Creek of noise. Shops closed. Streets cleared. Even gossip slowed, with nowhere to go. People were left alone with their thoughts—and their neighbors.

Rihanna spent her evenings on the porch.

Barefoot. Hoodie pulled tight. Phone dying faster than her thoughts.

Across the street, Dennis stood outside more often too. No friends. No music. Just him, scrolling, pacing, restless in a life that suddenly had nowhere to hide.

One night, Rihanna felt it before she saw it.

The look.

She glanced up and caught his eyes across the street.

Not passing.

Holding.

Her heart stuttered.

Dennis looked away first.

She told herself it meant nothing.

Her phone buzzed minutes later.

I*******m Notification

She stared at the screen.

This had to be a mistake.

She opened it.

Dennis:

Her pulse kicked.

Rihanna didn’t reply right away. She reread it. Once. Twice. A dozen times. Then she typed.

Rihanna:

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Dennis:

She smiled before she meant to.

Rihanna:

Dennis:

The word landed heavier than she expected.

She hesitated.

Rihanna:

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Messages turned into minutes. Minutes into hours. Teasing turned into curiosity. Curiosity into something quieter, deeper.

Dennis wasn’t what she expected.

He asked questions. Remembered answers. Didn’t rush the silence.

Rihanna didn’t realize how much she had missed being listened to until someone finally did.

At midnight, her phone buzzed again.

Dennis:

She laughed softly.

Rihanna:

Dennis:

She went to sleep smiling at her screen, unaware that something had shifted.

Two nights later, there was a tap on her window.

Soft. Careful.

Rihanna froze.

Another tap.

Her heart hammered as she pulled the curtain aside.

Dennis stood outside, half in shadow, holding a small white bakery box like it was contraband.

She slid the window open just enough.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“You said pineapple cake,” he replied. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

He passed the box through the window.

Their fingers brushed.

The contact was brief—but unmistakable.

“Why?” she asked.

He met her eyes.

“Because I wanted to see if you were real.”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

Dennis stepped back into the dark.

Rihanna stood there long after he left, holding the cake, heart racing.

Across the street, his bedroom light clicked on.

And for the first time in her life, Rihanna realized something dangerous:

Dennis Harlow had seen her.

And once you’re seen in Willow Creek—

There’s no going back.