The moving truck rumbled away, leaving fifteen-year-old Julian Carter standing alone in a driveway that smelled like fresh asphalt and loneliness. His backpack sagged with the weight of his most prized possession—a worn chess set with pieces smoothed by years of solitary games.
Through the open kitchen window of the house next door, laughter spilled into the evening air. The kind of messy, overlapping laughter that came from people who didn't think about being too loud. Julian's fingers tightened around his backpack straps.
Clunk.
His head snapped up. A kid—maybe twelve, with grass-stained knees—was hauling a bike onto the roof of the suburban two-story. Julian's brain kicked into motion before his feet did.
Angle of descent: 35 degrees. Estimated impact velocity: 15 mph. Probability of fracture: 73%.
"Hey!" Julian broke into a sprint. "You've got a 73% chance of breaking your arm!"
The kid—Luke, his name must be Luke—grinned down at him, utterly unafraid. "Worth it!"
The bike launched. The landing was not Olympic-quality.
Julian was kneeling beside him before the first wail finished escaping Luke's mouth. "No break," he murmured, fingers skimming the boy's wrist. "But you'll have one heck of a bruise."
"Are you a teenage doctor?"
Julian looked up into the wide, delighted eyes of a man in mismatched socks—Phil Dunphy, if the real estate sign was accurate.
"Just good at probability," Julian said, but Phil was already yelling toward the house.
"Claire! Come meet our new neighbor! He's a doctor-magician-statistician!"
Inside, the Dunphy kitchen smelled like burnt cookies and lemon cleaner. A woman—Claire—stood at the sink, her blonde ponytail swinging as she turned. Her eyes locked onto Julian with the precision of a laser sight.
Oh. She's the dangerous one.
"Julian Carter," he said, extending a hand.
"Claire Dunphy." Her grip was firm, her smile polite. "And that's my husband Phil, who apparently thinks you're a circus act."
Phil was already demonstrating a coin trick. "Pick a card, any card—"
"It's in your left pocket," Julian said.
Phil's jaw dropped. Claire's eyebrow arched.
"You're good," she said slowly. "Too good. What fifteen-year-old notices that stuff?"
Julian shrugged. "I pay attention."
A scoff came from the doorway. A girl his age—Alex, must be Alex—leaned against the frame, arms crossed over an MIT sweatshirt. "Oh great. Another know-it-all."
Julian's eyes flicked to the advanced physics textbook under her arm. "Problem 27 giving you trouble?"
Alex's grip tightened on the book. "How did you—"
"You're tapping your pencil in prime number sequences. That's either OCD or frustration with quantum mechanics."
The room went silent. Even Claire looked impressed.
Alex recovered first. She slammed the book onto the counter, flipping it open. "Prove it."
Julian scanned the page. Three seconds later, he grabbed a pen and scribbled in the margin. "You're overcomplicating the wave function collapse. Look."
Alex stared. Her lips moved silently as she worked through his solution. "...Huh."
The moment shattered as the front door banged open. A whirlwind of perfume and long legs—Haley—flounced into the kitchen. She paused mid-text, taking in the scene before zeroing in on Julian with predatory interest.
"Well hello, new neighbor," she purred, flipping her hair.
Julian didn't miss a beat. "Haley, right? Your boyfriend's poetry needs work."
Haley blinked. "How did you—"
"Your lock screen is a text that rhymes 'moon' with 'tuna.' That's a crime against literature."
Phil snorted coffee through his nose. Alex cracked a smile. Claire's eyes narrowed.
As Julian excused himself, Claire followed him to the door. "You're very... polished for a fifteen-year-old," she said carefully.
Julian paused on the front step. For the first time, his confident mask slipped. "I've had practice being whatever people needed."
Something in his tone made Claire's expression soften. Before she could stop herself, she called over her shoulder: "Phil! Set an extra plate for dinner!"
Julian's smile—his first real, unguarded one since arriving—lit up his whole face.
Back in his empty house, Julian unpacked his chess set. Through the walls, the Dunphys' laughter spilled like sunlight. He pretended not to notice the ache in his chest.