The morning after the storm felt surreal.
I woke up to sunlight streaming through my blinds and the faint smell of rain still lingering in the air. My lips still tingled from Elena's kiss. My brain still reeled from the sight of her in that glossy black catsuit, hair wild, mask in hand, landing silently in her garden like some goddess of the night.
I didn't know what to do with the information.
Part of me wanted to march over there and demand answers. The rest of me was terrified of what those answers might be—and terrified that if I pushed too hard, she'd disappear.
So I did what any reasonable twenty-two-year-old would do: I pretended nothing had happened.
I mowed the lawn. I answered job emails. I avoided looking at her house.
It didn't work.
Around noon, Elena appeared at the fence in cutoff shorts and a loose white button-down tied at the waist. Sunglasses perched in her hair. She looked perfectly normal. Devastatingly beautiful, but normal.
"Morning, handsome," she called, voice light. "Sleep okay after all the excitement?"
I leaned on the rake, trying for casual. "Eventually. You?"
She smiled—that slow, knowing curve that made my knees weak. "Like a rock." She paused, studying me. "Listen, I have to head out of town for a few days. Work thing. Graphic design conference in Vegas."
The lie was smooth, practiced. I nodded like I believed it.
"Yeah? Sounds fun."
"It'll be boring as hell," she said, rolling her eyes. "But bills don't pay themselves." She stepped closer to the fence, lowering her voice. "I didn't get to say a proper goodbye last night. Storm kind of killed the mood."
My pulse spiked. "We could… fix that."
Her laugh was soft. "Tempting. But I've got a flight in three hours." She reached over the fence, fingertips brushing my forearm. A tiny static spark jumped between us again. "Rain check?"
"Absolutely."
She held my gaze a second longer than necessary, then turned and walked back to her house, hips swaying in a rhythm that felt deliberate.
I watched her go, mind racing.
Vegas. Right.
That night, I couldn't stay away from the window.
Her house was dark by nine. Suitcase by the door earlier—she really had left.
Or so I thought.
At 11:47 p.m., my phone buzzed with a news alert.
BREAKING: Massive disturbance reported in Las Vegas Strip area. Witnesses describe "giant armored creature" rampaging near Bellagio fountains. Unconfirmed reports of a masked female vigilante engaging the threat.
My blood went cold.
I pulled up X. Grainy videos were already circulating.
A hulking figure—twelve feet tall, covered in jagged black plating like some demonic knight—smashing cars and spewing green fire from its maw. Screams. Chaos.
Then a streak of black and purple dropped from the sky.
Thick Chick.
The footage was shaky, but unmistakable. She hit the creature like a comet, sending it staggering. Purple energy crackled around her fists as she unleashed a barrage. It swiped at her with a massive claw; she flipped over it effortlessly, landing on its back and driving glowing fists into its armor.
The fight spilled across the Strip—fountains exploding, neon signs shattering. She flew—actually flew—lifting the monster overhead before slamming it into the pavement hard enough to crack the street.
At one point the creature pinned her against a wrecked limo. For a heart-stopping second it looked bad. Then her aura flared brighter than I'd ever seen—violent violet lightning arcing in every direction. She roared (an actual roar) and tore straight through its chest plate. The thing dissolved into ash and shadow, just like the one in the park.
The clip ended with her hovering above the wreckage, chest heaving, hair whipping in the rotor wash from news helicopters. She scanned the crowd, mask hiding her expression, then shot straight up into the night and vanished.
The internet exploded.
#ThickChick trended worldwide within minutes. Debates raged: hero or menace? Real or hoax? The usual.
I sat on my bed, staring at the frozen frame of her in mid-air—catsuit torn at the thigh, cleavage heaving, purple glow reflecting off the mask.
Elena.
My neighbor.
Out there saving the world while lying to me about a "conference."
I didn't sleep again.
She was gone for four days.
I followed every rumor, every blurry photo. She popped up in Seattle one night (stopping a bridge collapse), then Miami (interrupting some kind of occult ritual on a yacht). Each time the same pattern: arrive like thunder, destroy the threat, disappear before authorities could question her.
The world was starting to notice Thick Chick wasn't just an urban legend anymore.
On the fourth night, I was in the backyard shooting hoops under the floodlight, trying to burn off restless energy, when I heard the softest thud behind me.
I turned.
She stood at the fence line, still in the catsuit—scuffed and dirt-streaked from whatever fight she'd just come from. Mask pushed up on her forehead. Hair loose and wild. A long scratch marred one perfect cheekbone, already healing before my eyes.
"Hey," she said quietly.
"Hey yourself." My voice came out rougher than I intended.
She glanced at the house—my parents' bedroom light was off—then vaulted the fence in one effortless motion. Landed inches from me.
Up close, she looked exhausted. Beautiful, but tired in a bone-deep way.
"Rough trip?" I asked.
Her lips twitched. "You could say that."
Silence stretched. The air between us crackled—not literally this time, but close.
"You lied to me," I said finally.
"I know."
"Vegas. Conference."
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I don't lie to hurt you, Alex. I lie to protect you. To protect everyone."
I stepped closer. "I watched the videos. All of them."
Something flickered in her eyes—resignation, maybe fear.
"I figured you might."
Another step. We were almost touching now.
"You're her. Thick Chick."
She didn't deny it. Just held my gaze.
"And you're incredible," I said.
That surprised her. Her breath caught.
"I thought you'd be scared. Or angry."
"I'm a lot of things," I admitted. "But scared isn't one of them."
She searched my face, looking for the lie. Didn't find it.
Slowly, carefully, she reached up and cupped my jaw. Her palm was warm, calloused from fights I couldn't imagine.
"You shouldn't get close to me," she whispered. "People who do… they get hurt."
I covered her hand with mine. "Maybe I'm tougher than I look."
Her eyes softened. Then, without warning, she rose on her toes and kissed me.
Not like the frantic heat from the storm night. This was slower. Deeper. Grateful. Her body pressed fully against mine—leather cool against my T-shirt, curves molding to me in ways that made my head spin. I could feel the thrum of residual power under her skin, like holding a live wire wrapped in silk.
When we broke apart, foreheads resting together, she laughed softly—shaky.
"You're going to be the death of me, Alex."
"Ditto."
She pulled back, expression turning serious.
"I can't stay long. There's… more coming. Bigger things. That creature in Vegas was just the beginning."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
She hesitated, then reached into a hidden compartment at her hip and pulled out the domino mask. Held it out to me.
"Hold onto this while I'm gone again. If anything happens—if anyone comes looking—hide it. Burn it if you have to."
I took it. The material was soft, high-tech, warm from her body.
"How long this time?"
"I don't know." She brushed her thumb across my lower lip. "But I'll come back. I promise."
One last lingering look, then she stepped back. The purple aura flickered to life around her—soft at first, then brighter.
She rose slowly into the air, hair lifting in an unfelt wind.
"Stay out of trouble," she called down, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
Then she shot upward, a violet streak against the stars, and was gone.
I stood in the backyard long after she vanished, mask clutched in my hand, heart pounding with something that felt dangerously like hope.
My neighbor was a superhero.
And somehow, impossibly, I was part of her secret now.
End of Chapter 4