The late afternoon sun slanted through the slats of my blinds, painting stripes of gold and shadow across the living room floor. I was on my knees, a vintage wooden chair overturned in front of me, a can of lemon-scented polish and a rag in my hands. It was the kind of menial task that let my mind drift, and my mind, as it often did these days, drifted next door.
To him.
Marcus. I didn’t even know his last name. He’d moved in three months ago, a quiet presence in the sprawling Victorian that had stood empty for a year. I’d seen him from my kitchen window as he hauled boxes from a sleek, dark SUV. He was tall, with broad shoulders that strained the seams of his simple t-shirts, and a head of thick, dark hair that he had a habit of raking his fingers through when he was thinking. He wasn’t boyishly handsome; his face was all sharp angles and strong lines, a shadow of a beard always clinging to his jaw, giving him a perpetually rugged, unapproachable look.
I was neither unapproachable nor rugged. I was Claire, a graphic designer who worked from home, approaching my late thirties with a quiet predictability that I’d built for myself after a divorce that had left me hollow. My life was a comfortable, beige-colored cage of routine: coffee, work, a run, a glass of wine, and a book. I had curated my peace. I had not anticipated the seismic disruption of a man like Marcus moving in next door.
I ran the cloth over the chair’s curved back, the scent of lemons sharp and clean. From the corner of my eye, I caught movement through the window. Marcus was on his back porch, which abutted mine, separated only by a low wrought-iron fence and a line of overgrown hydrangeas. He was shirtless.
My breath hitched, a ridiculous, schoolgirl reaction. My hand stilled on the wood. He was a sculpture in the fading light, all sinew and muscle. His torso was a study in V-shapes, tapering from impossibly wide shoulders to a narrow waist, his skin a warm tan against the pale boards of his deck. He was stretching, his arms raised above his head, and the movement pulled the skin taut over his ribs, made the muscles in his back ripple. I watched, mesmerized, as he lowered his arms and picked up a large, weighted dumbbell.
He began to do bent-over rows, his body bracing, the muscles in his lats clenching with each powerful rep. I knew I should look away. This was an invasion of privacy, a silent, perverted voyeurism. But I couldn't. The forbidden nature of it, the sheer, unadulterated masculinity of him on display, was a drug more potent than the Valium I kept for my migraines.
A faint sheen of sweat began to glisten on his skin, catching the sun. He finished his set and tossed the dumbbell to the deck with a thud I could almost feel. He stood, hands on his hips, breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling. Then, as if sensing my gaze, he looked up. Straight at my window.
My heart went from a trot to a full gallop. I ducked, a frantic, clumsy motion, knocking over the can of polish. It spilled, a slick, yellow pool seeping across the hardwood. I cursed, grabbing a rag to soak it up, my cheeks burning with a mixture of shame and a strange, thrilling surge of adrenaline.
Had he seen me? The blinds were open, but the room behind me was dark, and maybe the sun was in his eyes. I hoped so. But a part of me, a dark, coiled part I’d tried to bury, whispered that I hoped he hadn’t.
I spent the rest of the evening in a haze. The memory of his body was a burn on my retinas. I tried to read, but the words blurred. I poured a large glass of wine and walked to my own porch. The air was thick and humid, carrying the scent of damp earth and cut grass. His porch light was on, but he wasn't outside. I told myself I was relieved.
The next few days were a torture of my own making. I found excuses to be near my windows. I’d water the plants on the windowsill in my study, which gave me a perfect, oblique view of his front door. I saw him leave for work in a crisp, navy blue suit that should have looked conservative but instead looked like an expensive glove on a dangerous man. I saw the mailman hand him a package, and I watched the easy, confident way he interacted with him, a genuine smile briefly softening his harsh features.
The attraction was a magnetic pull I couldn’t understand. It wasn't just his body, though that was undeniable. It was an aura, a quiet intensity. He seemed to live in a world of such focused simplicity, so different from the swirling chaos of my own head.
It was a Tuesday when I saw the storm. Black clouds rolled in from the west, obliterating the afternoon sun. Rain began to lash against the windows, turning the world a blurry gray. The power flickered, and with a final, desperate groan, died. The house went silent, a sudden, oppressive blackout.
I fumbled in the dark, stubbing my toe on the coffee table and swearing. I found the drawer in the kitchen with candles and a flashlight. I lit a few, their flickering flames creating dancing monsters on the walls. The silence was oppressive. The hum of my computer, the fridge, the clocks—all the white noise of modern life had vanished, leaving behind a vacuum that my loneliness rushed to fill.
My phone buzzed, making me jump. It was a text from an unknown number.
*Power out at your place? Saw the flash from my side.*
My heart hammered. It had to be him. I typed back a shaky reply.
*Yes. The whole block it seems.*
A minute later: *Looks like it. I have a generator and a decent stockpile of wine. Offer stands if you get bored. Or scared.*
This was it. The excuse I’d been looking for, or the one I’d been dreading. I stared at the phone, my thumb hovering. Common sense screamed at me. But the vision of him shirtless, the memory of that raw power, ached in my core. A reckless, hungry impulse overwhelmed my caution.
I walked to his door in the rain, a hooded jacket over my pajamas. Before I could knock, the door swung open. He stood there, silhouetted by the warm, golden light from inside, wearing jeans and a thin, worn Henley that clung to his damp skin. His presence was even more startling up close.
“You came,” he said, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. “I’m glad.”
“I… I brought you brownies,” I blurted, holding out the Tupperware container like an idiot. “A peace offering. I didn’t know what else to bring.”
He smiled, a slow, disarming curve of his lips. “You can never go wrong with baked goods, Claire.” He said my name as if he knew me, the sound of it on his tongue intimate and warm. He stepped aside, waving me in.
His house was the same layout as mine but felt like a different world. It was sparsely furnished, but what was there was of high quality—a huge, leather sectional, a massive flat-screen TV, a bookshelf overflowing with hardcovers. A large, industrial-style fan hummed softly in the corner, connected to a generator. The air smelled like cedar and leather and him.
“Storm’s meant to pass by midnight,” he said, walking to the kitchen. He placed my brownies on the counter and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “I was mostly kidding about the scared part. But the offer of wine is always on the table.”
“I know,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended. “I think I just… needed to get out of the dark. The quiet can get loud after a while.”
He studied me, his gray eyes piercing in the lamplight. He opened the wine with a practiced twist and poured two generous glasses. He handed me one, his fingers brushing mine. The touch was electric, a sudden shock that had me tightening my grip on the glass to steady myself.
“To new neighbors,” he said, lifting his glass.
“And to power outages,” I replied, taking a sip. The wine was rich and smooth, warming my throat.
We sat on his sofa, a respectable distance between us. We talked. I learned he was an architect, a consultant who worked from home when he wasn’t traveling. He’d moved here for a quieter life, to get away from the constant noise of the city. He asked about my work, and I found myself explaining my design process, something I rarely did with strangers. He listened with genuine interest, his gaze steady and unnerving.
The conversation was easy, flowing around the sounds of the storm. But beneath it, a different conversation hummed. A silent, charged dialogue written in the way his eyes lingered on my mouth when I spoke, in the way my skin prickled every time he laughed. The voltage between us was palpable, a living thing in the space between our bodies.
The storm raged on. The candles on the coffee table flickered, throwing our shadows across the walls. He’d leaned forward, gesturing as he talked about a building he was designing, and I was frozen, watching the animation in his face, the way his hands moved with such confidence.
“You know, Claire,” he said suddenly, his tone shifting, becoming lower, more intimate. “I’ve had a hell of a time trying not to look at you.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I see you out running in the morning. I saw you on your porch with your wine. I see you, and I… watch. It’s gotten to be a problem.”
His confession was a mirror to my own. A fire ignited in my belly, a heady mix of validation and raw desire.
“I’ve been watching you too,” I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “You’re… hard to ignore.”
He held my gaze. The simmering tension broke its banks. He reached out and took the wine glass from my suddenly numb fingers, setting it on the low table. Then, his hand caught mine. He pulled me gently to my feet, leading me to him until I was standing between his knees. He looked up at me, his eyes dark, half-lidded.
“I’ve thought about doing this since the day I moved in,” he murmured, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the insides of my wrists.
“Doing what?” I breathed.
He answered by leaning forward and pressing his lips to the inside of my elbow. A shiver wracked my body. He kissed a trail up my arm, over the sensitive skin of my bicep, to the curve of my shoulder. His free hand slid around my waist, pulling me closer, his grip possessive and sure.
He buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell like vanilla and rain,” he said, his voice a low growl against my skin.
I arched into him, my hands finding their way into his thick, dark hair. It was softer than I imagined. I tilted his head back and looked at him, this powerful, enigmatic man who was suddenly, achingly vulnerable beneath my touch. The power dynamic shifted between us, a delicious, trembling equilibrium.
I lowered my mouth to his.
The kiss was not tentative
