1
I stared at the crumpled boxer briefs on the bedroom floor—grayish-white fabric gone dingy at the crotch, elastic rolled into a sad sausage at the waistband. Three days old. Maybe four. I nudged them with the toe of my slipper, watched them shift an inch, and felt the same dull nausea I always did when I catalogued the small accumulations of neglect.
I used to imagine telling Tyler I wanted a baby. I'd rehearsed the speech in my head during long commutes: calm, vulnerable, hopeful. "We've built something good. Let's make it bigger." But every time the words rose in my throat they tasted like ash. How do you ask a man to grow up when you're still picking up his dirty socks from between the couch cushions? How do you ask for a child when you're already parenting a thirty-eight-year-old with a five-o'clock shadow and a Call of Duty addiction?
Ten years of "I'll do it later."
Ten years of trash bags splitting at the seams because he forgot again. Ten years of laundry mountains that migrated from hamper to floor to washer only when I finally broke and did it myself. Ten years of me asking, him agreeing, then vanishing into the glow of the television while I quietly seethed.
"Baby, can you take the trash out when you leave?"
"Yeah, sure. Later."
Later arrived with the streetlights already buzzing on. The kitchen smelled faintly sour. I tied the bag so tight the plastic squeaked, heaved it over my shoulder like a drunk bridesmaid, and carried it out to the curb in the dark. My arms ached by the time I got back inside. Tyler didn't look up from his screen.
I stopped asking for date nights two years ago. The last time I tried—"Maybe we could grab dinner at that Italian place on Halsted?"—he'd sighed like I'd asked him to donate a kidney. "Work's been brutal, Ken. I'm wiped." So I stopped. Stopped suggesting movies, stopped suggesting walks, stopped suggesting anything that required him to put pants on after six p.m. Now the evenings belonged to him and his headset, and the house belonged to silence and me.
The comments about my body started small, then sharpened.
At my thirty-fifth birthday dinner—twenty people crammed around the long table at Taverna Greco—he leaned over while I was cutting cake and said, loud enough for my mother and both sisters to hear: "Maybe you should skip the second slice, babe. You keep saying you want to get back to the gym."
My fork froze mid-air. The table went quiet for one terrible second before someone coughed and changed the subject. My mother actually murmured, "He's just looking out for your health, honey," like she was translating his cruelty into something acceptable.
I smiled. I always smile when I'm dying inside. I ate half the slice I'd already cut, wrapped the rest in foil for "later," and never hosted another birthday dinner. The past five years I've spent the day alone: Thai takeout, a bottle of Malbec, headphones, and the blinds closed. I tell myself I like the quiet. Most nights I almost believe it.
This Wednesday morning was no different. I woke at 5:45, showered in the dark so I wouldn't have to see Tyler sprawled across the mattress like roadkill of his own, dressed in yesterday's slacks because the clean ones were still in the dryer, and started the trash trek down the driveway before the coffee even finished brewing.
The big green bin was stubborn—wheels caught on every crack in the concrete. My arms burned. Sweat already prickled under my bra by the time I reached the mailbox.
Movement. Fence line. I looked away so fast my neck twinged.
Rafael.
Seven months since the moving truck had backed into the house next door. Seven months since I first noticed him: tall, quiet, dark hair perpetually damp from a shower or a run, always in basketball shorts or sweats that hung low enough to show the deep V of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. He never stared. Never leered. But he heard everything. Every fight that bled through our thin walls. Every time I hissed "You promised" and Tyler barked "I said later." Every choked sob I muffled into a pillow at 2 a.m.
He rounded the cedar fence now, barefoot on the dew-wet grass, shirtless, skin gleaming like he'd just finished a set of pull-ups. The smile he aimed at me could've powered half the block.
"Morning, Ken."
That voice—low, warm, unhurried, edged with the faintest trace of a Spanish accent—slid under my skin like summer heat.
"Hi, Rafael."
"You're wrestling the bins again."
I forced a laugh. "If I don't, nobody will."
His smile dimmed. Not pity, exactly—something closer to quiet anger on my behalf. He stepped onto my driveway without asking, grabbed the second bin like it weighed nothing, and started walking.
"I've got it," I said quickly.
"You're going to be late again." He didn't slow down. "You're always late on Wednesdays."
Heat climbed my throat. "It's not a big deal."
"It is." He set both bins at the curb with a soft clack, dusted his palms on his shorts. "You shouldn't have to do this alone every week."
I opened my mouth to argue—pride is a reflex, after all—but he cut me off gently.
"Next time just knock. Or text. I don't sleep much anyway."
I swallowed. "I don't want to be a burden."
"You're not." He met my eyes. "You're exhausted. That's different."
He jogged back to his side of the fence before I could answer.
After that first Wednesday the bins were always at the curb when I left for work—and mysteriously back beside the house when I returned. No fanfare. No "you owe me." Just done.
I whispered his name once, alone in the dark—"Oh, Rafael, you're too good to me"—and hated how much I meant it.
That night Tyler was "working late" again. I didn't check. I didn't care.
I locked the bedroom door at 10:42. The house was silent except for the low drone of the fridge downstairs. I pulled the towel from the linen closet—the thick navy one I'd started keeping for exactly this purpose—spread it across the center of our queen mattress, and stripped down to nothing.
The vibrator lived in the back of the nightstand drawer, behind expired condoms and a half-empty bottle of lube I hadn't touched in months. Purple silicone. Quiet motor. Nothing fancy. It was never supposed to be permanent.
I settled against the pillows, knees bent, legs falling open until the cool air kissed the damp skin between my thighs. I clicked the lowest setting. The buzz was soft, almost polite.
At first I tried to think of nothing. Blank mind. Just sensation.
But bodies remember betrayal differently than brains do.
My free hand drifted to my breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaked. The vibrator followed the crease of my thigh, teasing, never quite touching where I needed it. A slow drag along the outer lips. Then inside—just the tip—enough to make me clench.
My mind slipped.
Not Tyler. Not the man who once fucked me against the shower wall and whispered how beautiful I was.
Just Rafael—sweat-slicked, shirtless, carrying responsibilities like it was nothing. The easy strength in his arms. The way he looked at me like I was still worth looking at.
I pressed the vibrator harder against my clit. A gasp tore out of me.
Shame flared hot in my chest. This is wrong. He's the neighbor. He's kind. He's not yours.
But the coil was already tightening. Low. Hot. Merciless.
I pictured his hands—long fingers, callused knuckles—sliding up my calves, parting my knees wider. Pictured his mouth on the inside of my thigh. Pictured him looking up at me while he licked a slow stripe from entrance to clit, eyes never leaving mine.
My hips bucked. The vibrator slipped lower, notched inside me. I fucked myself with shallow thrusts while the outer ridge ground against my swollen clit.
A whimper. Then a moan—too loud in the empty room.
I didn't care.
The orgasm built like a storm: pressure, then pressure, then shattering release. My back arched off the mattress. Toes curled. Thighs trembled. A raw, broken sound ripped from my throat as pleasure pulsed through me in vicious, overlapping waves.
I rode it until my muscles gave out.
Chest heaving. Skin slick. The vibrator still buzzing weakly against my oversensitive clit. I clicked it off, let it fall to the towel.
Silence rushed back in.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
Then—movement.
A shadow slid across the bedroom wall, long and human-shaped, thrown by moonlight pouring through the half-open blinds. It came from the direction of his house—his upstairs window directly across from ours.
I froze.
Breath trapped in my throat.
The shadow paused. Held. Then vanished.
I lay perfectly still, heart hammering so hard I was sure it would crack a rib.
The vibrator was still warm between my legs. The towel damp beneath me.
And across the yard, in the dark rectangle of his window, a faint glow flickered on—then off. Like someone had just stepped away.
