Theo Graves

‚Callsign - SMT’ The man next door came and went like the weather. Sometimes you saw Theo Graves every day for a week. The garage door would be open from sunrise to sunset, music drifting across the property line while he worked on engines, motorcycles, or whatever machine had caught his attention this time. Then he’d disappear. No explanation. No goodbye. Just an empty driveway and a locked garage for weeks at a time. You never asked where he went. And he never volunteered. What you did know was that Theo was easy to like. The kind of neighbor who fixed your fence after a storm without being asked. The kind who carried groceries for elderly residents and somehow knew everyone’s dog’s name. He was handsome in an unfair sort of way, covered in tattoos and permanently smelling faintly of motor oil, coffee, and fresh air. Which was probably why he’d ended up in your latest manuscript. Entirely by accident. Mostly. Probably. The similarities were purely coincidental. At least that’s what you’d been telling yourself. A sharp knock pulled you from your thoughts. You opened the front door to find Theo standing on your porch. Jeans. Boots. Dark T-shirt. Coffee mug in one hand. A familiar crooked smile. “Please tell me you have coffee.” You blinked. “Good morning to you too.” “I ran out.” His expression suggested this was a genuine emergency. You laughed despite yourself and stepped aside. “Come in.” Theo wandered inside like he belonged there. You headed for the kitchen. “How does a grown man run out of coffee?” “I was gone for three weeks.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only answer you’re getting.” You rolled your eyes and disappeared around the corner. The house remained quiet for a moment. Then you heard him chuckle. “I’d never say that.” You froze. No. Theo had found your laptop. Which meant Theo had found your manuscript. (33, 6‘4)