It's been a week since my run in with the boy from the posters on my wall. Jonah Mitchell is exactly how I'd imagined in person. It's as if he stepped out of one of the posters. So many times I have swooned over his floppy hair with the slight waves at the back and the messy pieces that fall in front. It's not raven black like the ideal rockstar image, since his hair is a shade lighter, but he still makes the panties of every female fan he meets wet.

I shake the thoughts out of my head. Virgin for life at this rate and emotionally pining for guys who will never even look my way. Well –– guys don't normally look my way, but –– he did. A brief flash of him having his superhero moment of jumping over the fence to get to me comes to mind. Was he concerned? It seemed so.

I've done my best to ignore him over the last week. Averting my eyes from the house next door to what's in front of me. Every morning I race to Tiffany's car and keep my head down. She's been talking non-stop about our run in with him and always lingers longer when all I want to do is hide.

Keeping my window shut when I practice singing is the best for now. Although the weight of my anxiety over having my room warm and stuffy might make me cave. It's when I hear the sound of a familiar song, one I sung with the window open that stops me from my warm ups.

His voice is smooth yet somehow gritty like a rockstar. The tone sends shivers through me. He's singing loud like he wants to wake up the whole neighborhood or have the cops called on him for disrupting the peace. When he hits the chorus of "Thinking of You" his voice grows significantly.

I don't want to go to the window but my fingers itch at my sides. Closing my eyes, I attempt to warm up my vocal cords. He wants a battle. I'll give him just that. My feet get to the threshold of my doorway before I pause. I'm about to yell at my idol — things are about to get interesting.

Dad's not home, thank God. He had a lot to say about the boy next door when I returned home last week. Dad is overprotective but does it out of love. He's never really had to worry about boys before because none of them would touch me to begin with. But Jonah changed that for him. The way he braced my arm to help me to my feet and the attention he gave, sparked my dad to want to have THE TALK.

Once downstairs I grab one of my light spring denim jackets from the coat hanger and proceed through the hallway, the living room, then out the sliding doors. I step out onto the back porch, it's almost identical to his, but ours is freshly stained whereas his is not.

He's already facing my house, so it's no surprise to him when I appear. It only makes his smile grow wider. Jonah's eyes lower to the deck and his guitar. His grin is wider than sin. He's literally dripping with it, and I might need to go to church after this performance from my thoughts alone.

When his dark eyes lift and meet mine, I'm left breathless. How many times had I imagined him pulling me on stage and having eyes only for me. Now here he is allowing me to live out my fantasy. In my haste I didn't realize he had changed the 'thinking of him' lyric to 'thinking of her'.

If my heart would stop fangirling that would be great right about now. He ends the song and I swear the last chord reverberates through me.

"You baited me."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I did. You stopped singing for me and I had to think of some kind of plan."

"I don't do solos."

The left side of his lip quirks up. Can he stop being a walking-talking sex God? 

"Then what was you having your own solo concert in your room?"

I cross my arms at my chest because while I'm heated, I also feel cold and exposed.

"I didn't know anyone was listening."

"You opened the window."

"You're infuriating, do you know that?"

We're basically yelling between the two yards. Anyone walking by on the sidewalks out front and maybe even our neighbors could probably hear our banter.

"So, I've been told."

I scowl and it only makes him laugh harder. In all my dreams when I met the famous Jonah Mitchell it went a lot differently. It was always backstage at a concert, or I'd be in the audience, and he'd pick me out of everyone and take me onto his tour bus. This however was not what I'd pictured at all. I'm actually mad at him.

Turning to go inside because I don't like that he's laughing at me, I'm halted in my steps by the sound of his shoes stomping on the ground and the rattle of the fence. He's close, I can feel him. To my left he's strutting up the stairs of my deck, guitar still in hand, grin not present on his handsome face.

"Hey," His tone is soft and there's no humor resonating in it.

"I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. Your voice is..." He doesn't come any further from the last step and places a hand on the top rail of the deck. "Your voice is... look, truth is, I don't want to be here with..." he points to his house, and his cheeks flush a little, something I never imagined on a guy who seemed so put together. "With him." He pauses and swallows. "And your voice reminded me of all the good things in life, all the good cards I've been dealt over the bad ones. It was comforting."

Frozen in place I hardly register my body shifting towards where he is standing. I feel kind of awful for biting his head off, but in my defense, I had no idea my new neighbor was my favorite teen rockstar. He probably wanted to keep it a secret, which was why he'd wear hoodies with large hoods to cover up.

"I'm sorry too," I say, hoping my voice sounds strong, but there's a crack in it. "I – I clam up if I have to sing solo. I once threw up at a school concert because my teacher convinced me I was ready for a solo. I – I — haven't since."

The deck creeks but my eyes stay trained on the floorboards and his converses striding towards me. I gasp when his fingers curl under my chin and lift to make me look at him.

"I can help you fix that," he pauses and checks me over. His eyes don't stray from my face, but he's taking in all my features in an almost intimate way. "You continued to sing for me, remember? Our duet of that song. Come on, let's try it."

He drops his fingers and starts to strum the chords of the song again. "You got this, just like through the window. You're up there, hidden, I'm down here. Close your eyes, imagine you're in your bedroom."

His tone is soft, caring and I hesitate on the first note, and he picks it up for me. I listen to his instructions and close my eyes, my hands clenched at my side. I inhale and then start to sing very meekly.

"A little louder, Mack."

As the pre-chorus comes I'm already singing louder and then his voice hits at the same time mine does as we sail into the chorus together. Our voices meld into each other and I'm suddenly in my room singing his songs and trying to match him.

Halfway through I open my eyes to find him watching me, a smile — not a smirk present on his face. He nods in approval, and I keep going, allowing my own lips to tug up in a smile as we finish the song together.

"See all you had to do was imagine me in your room." Now the smirk is back but it's playful so I laugh at his attempt to make me feel better.

"You wish," I tease.

His chuckle is enough to chase the chill in the air. "Maybe I do. Bye, girl next door. See you around?"

I shrug nonchalantly but am internally screaming at what he just told me. "Maybe."

He glances down for a split second, mirth dancing over his features. "Bye, Mack."

"Goodbye, Jonah."

And with that he hops over the fence, guitar in hand,and heads back inside his house, leaving me speechless and hungry for more ofwhatever just happened.