Landscaping Next Door

The heat on Kangaroo Island didn’t simply sit in the afternoon air.

It pressed.

It built a low, humming weight vibrating against the glass window, turning the horizon into a blur of white-gold light where dry scrub met an endless summer sky. Even the eucalyptus trees seemed to have surrendered beneath it, their leaves barely moving in the stillness.

The island had gone quiet.

Too quiet.

I stood barefoot beside the window, one hand resting against the warm glass, wondering whether I should close the curtains and retreat into the air-conditioned cool of the house.

Then the air shifted.

A vehicle appeared next door.

Dust lifted from the driveway as a tailgate dropped with a metallic clang. The vacant cottage, empty for long enough that I’d stopped thinking about it, suddenly had a pulse.

Someone was moving in.

I watched a screen door creak open.

Then him.

He stepped into the sunlight shirtless, and for one ridiculous second, I forgot what I had been doing.

He didn’t simply occupy the space.

He commanded it.

There was nothing polished or deliberate about the way he moved. He wasn’t posing. He wasn’t checking whether anyone was watching. He was working, and somehow that made it worse.

Or better.

Definitely better.

He bent to take hold of a solid timber wardrobe.

My attention sharpened.

I’d always been fascinated by the anatomy of movement. Not simply muscles as something beautiful to look at, but the mechanics underneath—the way the human body coordinated itself to produce strength, balance and control.

And this man was giving me an entire anatomy lesson.

His movement began in his legs.

His thighs braced first, carrying the initial load as he shifted his weight. His pelvis adjusted beneath the strain, and the long muscular columns alongside his spine tightened as he prepared to lift.

Then his back engaged.

The trapezius formed a broad, protective sweep across his upper shoulders, narrowing toward the centre of his spine. Beneath it, the deeper muscles along either side of his vertebral column tightened as he stabilised the heavy furniture.

Watch the draft.

Watch the pull.

Watch the body calculate the weight.

He lifted.

Tense.

Release.

The movement was slow and deliberate, almost rhythmic.

A neo-soul tempo without the music.

Under his arms, the latissimus dorsi widened as he drew the wardrobe toward himself, creating a powerful sweep from his upper back toward his pelvis. His obliques tightened as he pivoted, stabilising his trunk against the awkward load.

I was studying him for scientific reasons.

That would be a lie.

I was studying him because he was beautiful.

There.

I’d admitted it.

The sun caught his shoulders as he paused.

His deltoids rounded beneath the glare, shifting as his arms changed position. Around his shoulder blade, smaller muscles worked beneath the surface—quiet, intricate pieces of machinery controlling a movement that looked deceptively simple from a distance.

He adjusted his grip.

The wardrobe shifted.

His entire body responded.

For some reason, that fascinated me more than the obvious definition of his physique.

Strength wasn’t still.

It moved.

It adapted.

It revealed itself through action.

A single drop of sweat appeared high between his shoulders.

I watched it travel down the centre of his back, cutting a clean path through the fine dust coating his skin before disappearing toward his waistband.

My breath caught.

Okay.

Maybe I wasn’t being particularly scientific anymore.

I stepped away from the window.

Then immediately stepped back.

Because apparently I had no self-control.

The heat outside carried the faint scent of eucalyptus and sun-baked earth into my room. It wrapped around me, heavy and warm, and suddenly the four walls felt too close.

I needed air.

Mostly, I needed a closer look at the absolute snack who had just moved into the cottage next door.

I walked onto the veranda.

The faded timber was warm beneath my bare feet.

He was leaning against the tray of his ute, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm.

The movement flexed his shoulder.

My gaze followed it.

His deltoid tightened into a rounded swell beneath dark, sun-warmed skin before rediscovering relaxation again.

I smiled to myself.

This was becoming embarrassing.

I stood on my veranda analysing the musculature of a stranger.

Then his head turned.

Our eyes met.

Across the narrow strip of scorched grass separating our properties, we stared at each other.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did I.

A slow smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

He’d caught me.

Heat rushed into my face.

Not from the weather.

From him.

“Hot one today,” he called.

His voice was deep and rough, a low baritone that seemed to travel effortlessly through the heavy afternoon air.

I swallowed.

“Unforgiving.”

My own voice sounded different to me.

Lower.

Softer.

He smiled again.

Then he pushed away from the ute.

He started walking toward the cottage.

Toward me.

Not quickly.

There was no reason to rush.

His shoulders moved naturally with each step, his heavy thighs carrying his frame with easy confidence. The sunlight followed him, catching the sheen of sweat across his skin.

I told myself to stop staring.

I didn’t.

He stopped near the fence.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

The distance between us suddenly seemed much smaller than it had from the window.

“You live there?” he asked, nodding toward my cottage.

I glanced behind me.

“Unfortunately.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“Unfortunately?”

“Depends on the neighbours.”

A laugh escaped him.

It was deep, warm and completely unexpected.

“Fair enough.”

He looked back toward his own place.

“I’m Kai.”

Kai.

The name settled somewhere in my mind.

“Maya.”

His gaze returned to mine.

“Maya.”

The way he said it made my pulse stumble.

He looked at me for another second, then glanced down at the mailbox at the edge of my property.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Looks that way.”

He smiled.

Then he turned back toward his cottage.

I watched him walk away.

Of course I did.

But this time, I wasn’t studying the muscles.

Not really.

Who he was.

Where he’d come from.

Why he’d chosen this isolated patch of Kangaroo Island.

And why, after less than five minutes, my quiet summer suddenly felt as though it had acquired a soundtrack.

A low bassline.

Slow.

Soulful.

Beginning somewhere beneath my ribs.

I rested my hand against my chest.

My heart was still beating too fast.

I smiled.

The stranger next door had a name now.

Kai.

And somehow, I already knew the scenery would be a problem.