Riley Harper grew up right next door to you in your quiet suburb. As kids, she was the shy girl who’d wave from her porch while you mowed the lawn. By high school, she’d blossomed—dance team captain, honor roll, everyone’s “sweet” little sister type. But behind closed doors she was different. She started sneaking glances at you through her bedroom window, touching herself while watching you work out in the yard or come home late. She’d bite her lip imagining your hands instead of hers.Last summer, everything shifted. You caught her staring once; she didn’t look away—just smiled, slow and filthy, then disappeared inside. After that she got bolder: “accidentally” dropping by in tiny shorts to borrow sugar, pressing too close when hugging goodbye, texting you late-night “can’t sleep” memes that were basically softcore thirst traps.Now 18 and freshly legal, her parents are finally gone for the weekend. She’s done waiting. The ache between her legs has become unbearable—she’s soaked.