Thoughts of Junie

Looking out my bedroom window, I expected everything to feel different after ten years away. But it didn’t. The houses still lined Maplewood Drive like neat little teeth on a too-perfect smile.

The Jeffersons still had their American flag flapping against the breeze. The Davids’ porch swing still creaked in that slow, rhythmic way I remembered from childhood summers. The Wilsons had even repainted their shutters the same seafoam green as always. Each house was perfectly kept—trimmed lawns, sparkling flowerbeds, white fences so clean they practically glowed under the spring sun.

And then there was that house.

The Montgomery house.

A rusted mailbox hung crooked from its post. The front yard was a mess of tangled weeds, wildflowers growing like rebellion between the cracks in the pavement. The once-white siding had faded into a dull, peeling gray, and the basketball hoop that used to sit firmly in the driveway was now shoved onto the street, its net torn like the remnants of a forgotten childhood.

I used to love that house.

Now it looked abandoned—except I knew it wasn’t. He was back.

Phoenix Montgomery.

The name sent a tremor down my spine, one I hated myself for. I hadn’t seen him since I was eighteen. One summer, one wild, reckless love, and a goodbye that shattered me. He’d disappeared without a word—no calls, no letters. Nothing.

And now? Now he lived at the end of the street again, and I was back in my childhood room, with a four-year-old asleep across the hall, and my ego lying somewhere between rejection letters from art galleries and empty bank accounts.

This was my life now.

Unmarried. Back in Salem Oaks. A washed-up artist with a failed New York dream, slinging cinnamon rolls and pretending not to care that my past was parked three houses down.

I ran my fingers along the windowpane, eyes locked on the Montgomery house. I used to sneak out to that porch. I used to kiss him against those bricks. His hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck, the low growl in his throat when I whispered his name—

I exhaled sharply, dragging myself out of the memory.

“Mommy?” a sleepy voice called behind me.

I turned to see my daughter, Ivy, standing in the doorway, her curls a tangled mess of morning defiance, her stuffed bunny hanging limp in one hand.

“Hey, baby,” I smiled, crossing the room to scoop her up. She curled against my shoulder, warm and trusting, completely unaware of the war going on behind my ribcage.

I kissed her forehead. “Let’s go make some pancakes.”

And as I carried her downstairs, I knew one thing for certain: the past wasn’t done with me. And judging by the shadows in that house at the end of the street…

Neither was he.

The bakery smelled like sugar, vanilla, and a hint of desperation.

I tied my apron behind my back and glanced at the clock. 6:03 a.m. My mother was already in the kitchen, humming to some 80s power ballad as she piped frosting onto cupcakes like she hadn’t been up since four. She was tireless, efficient, and stubborn as hell. Like me. Only, she didn’t run off to New York to chase dreams that died on contact with reality.

“Morning,” she said without looking up. “You’re late.”

“Three minutes,” I muttered, grabbing a tray of croissants from the oven.

“In this business, three minutes is enough to lose a customer and your reputation.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Coach.”

She chuckled, and for a moment, the familiar rhythm of our routine settled over me like a warm blanket—until the doorbell above the bakery chimed.

I turned, ready to force a smile for whichever early bird craved carbs and caffeine before dawn. But my breath caught in my throat.

Phoenix.

He stood just inside the door, the morning sun outlining him in sharp gold. The same broad shoulders. The same lazy confidence in his stance, like the world owed him nothing and he liked it that way. His dark hair was a little longer now, brushing the collar of his jacket, and a hint of stubble lined his jaw.

But his eyes—those eyes hadn’t changed.

Gray. Stormy. Intense.

And locked right on me.

My heart punched against my chest. My body remembered before my brain could protest—how his hands used to feel gripping my thighs, how his mouth could pull secrets from my skin. The way he’d once made me forget the world, forget myself.

“Morning,” he said, voice low and smooth.

I swallowed. “Phoenix.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“I live here now.”

“Yeah?” His gaze dipped briefly to the flour dusting my apron. “Looks good on you.”

My mother cleared her throat loudly behind me, causing both of us to break the stare. “Can I help you, Phoenix?”

He turned to her, all charm and politeness. “Coffee. Black. And one of those apple turnovers, if Harper made them.”

“I did,” I said, instantly regretting it.

“Perfect.” His smirk deepened. “Then I’ll take two.”

I grabbed the pastries and poured his coffee, all too aware of how close he stood on the other side of the counter. I slid the cup toward him, avoiding his touch, but still felt the heat of his fingers near mine.

“You back for good?” I asked, forcing my voice into something neutral.

“Something like that.”

“How’s your family?”

“Gone,” he said simply. “Sold the house to me.”

That made me blink. “You bought it?”

He sipped the coffee, watching me over the rim. “Figured someone had to take care of the place.”

A silence stretched between us—one charged with everything we weren’t saying. Everything we hadn’t said back then.

He leaned in slightly. “You look good, Harper.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. My body was already betraying me—heat blooming in my chest, my thighs pressing together under the counter, memories flickering like matches in the dark.

Phoenix gave me one last look, one that promised more than it said, then turned and walked out, the bell above the door ringing behind him.

My mother raised an eyebrow as soon as he was gone. “So… that’s back in town.”

“Yep.”

“You okay?”

No. “Of course.”

She gave me that look—half knowing, half maternal judgment. “You play with fire, Harper Grace, don’t be surprised if you get burned twice.”

I didn’t respond.

Because the truth was, I wanted to get burned.

And that terrified me more than anything.