Welcome to the Neighborhood

The moving truck shows up on a Tuesday.

I'm working from home, laptop on my patio, when I hear the diesel engine rumble down the street. A U-Haul pulls into the driveway next door—the house that's been empty for three months since old Mrs. Patterson moved to assisted living.

Someone's finally moving in.

I watch from behind my laptop as the driver's door opens. A woman steps out. My coffee cup stops halfway to my mouth.

She's gorgeous. Maybe mid-forties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, curves that the moving-day yoga pants can't hide. She's thick in all the right ways—wide hips, full breasts, an ass that makes the fabric work for its paycheck.

She stretches, looks around the neighborhood, and catches me staring.

I wave. She waves back.

Fuck.

I give it an hour. Let her get started. Then I walk over with a six-pack of cold beer and my most neighborly smile.

"Hi. I'm Derek. I live next door." I hold up the beer. "Thought you might need this."

She looks at the six-pack. Then at me. Then back at the six-pack.

"You're a mind reader." She takes two bottles, hands me one back. "I'm Valerie. Just divorced. Starting over. You know how it is."

I don't, but I nod anyway.

"Need any help? I'm working from home, but it can wait."

She gestures at the U-Haul, still mostly full. "I couldn't. That's too much."

"I'm stronger than I look." I flex—half-joking, but she looks. "Put me to work."

She considers. Takes a long drink of beer.

"Okay," she says. "Let's do this."

We work for three hours.

Couches. Tables. Boxes labeled KITCHEN and BATHROOM and BEDROOM. She's organized—I'll give her that—but the sheer volume of stuff is overwhelming. By the time the truck is empty, we're both dripping sweat.

"Last box," I say, setting it down in the bedroom. "Congratulations. You officially live here."

"I can't thank you enough." She's leaning against the doorframe, watching me. "I was going to try to do this alone. It would have taken all week."

"That's what neighbors are for."

"Is it?" She pushes off the frame. Walks toward me. "Because I feel like I owe you more than just gratitude."

"You don't owe me anything."

"Maybe not." She stops in front of me. Close. Too close. "But maybe I want to give you something anyway."

She kisses me.

No warning. No preamble. Just her mouth on mine, her hands on my chest, her body pressing against me in this half-unpacked bedroom.

"Valerie—"

"I know. It's fast. It's crazy." She pulls back, but doesn't let go. "My husband left me for his twenty-six-year-old secretary. Said I'd let myself go. Said I wasn't attractive anymore."

"He was an idiot."

"Maybe. But I spent two years believing him." Her eyes are fierce. "I don't want to believe him anymore. And you—" She gestures at me. "You've been looking at me all afternoon like I'm something worth looking at."

"You are."

"Then prove it." She pulls her tank top over her head.

Her body is a revelation.

Heavy breasts in a sports bra, soft belly I want to bury my face in, curves for days. She strips off the bra, and I groan.

"This is what he left," she says. "This is what he said wasn't good enough."

"He was wrong." I pull off my own shirt. "You're perfect."

I kiss her again. This time it's not tentative—it's hungry. I grab her hips, pull her against me, and she gasps into my mouth.

"The bed's not made—"

"I don't care." I guide her backward. "I'll take you on the bare mattress."

She lands on it, bouncing. I strip off my shorts and climb over her.

"Already?" She reaches for my cock—hard and straining. "That's... flattering."

"That's what you do to me." I tug her yoga pants down. She's not wearing underwear. "That's what you've been doing to me all afternoon."

I bury my face between her thighs.

She comes in two minutes.

Two years of being told she's not enough, and she comes apart on my tongue like she's been starving. I lick her through it, push my fingers inside her, make her come again.

"Oh God—please—I need—"

I rise up. Position myself. Push in.

She screams.

"Yes—" Her legs wrap around me. "Derek—"

I fuck her on the bare mattress in her new bedroom. The one she'll sleep in alone after her divorce. Except tonight, she won't be alone.

"This is your fresh start," I tell her between thrusts. "This is your new life."

"Yes—" She's close again. "My new life—"

"And I'm going to be part of it."

She comes screaming my name. I follow her, filling her, claiming her in this new house that's supposed to be her new beginning.

Afterward, we lie on the bare mattress. No sheets. No pillows. Just skin on skin.

"I should find the bedding," she murmurs.

"In a minute." I pull her closer. "First tell me something."

"What?"

"Am I just a rebound? A way to feel good after the divorce?" I ask it honestly. No judgment. "Because if so, that's fine. But I'd like to know."

She's quiet for a moment. Then she props herself up, looks at me.

"I don't know what you are yet," she admits. "But I know I felt more alive in the last hour than I have in the last two years. And I know I don't want to feel dead anymore."

"That's a start."

"It is." She kisses me softly. "So here's the deal. You live next door. I'm going to be here every day. And I think—" She smiles. "I think I'd like to keep feeling alive."

"I can help with that."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

She climbs on top of me. We don't find the bedding until the next morning.

Three months later, she's my girlfriend.

Six months later, she's practically living at my place.

A year later, I'm helping her move again—this time into my house.

"Remember when you helped me unpack?" she asks.

"I remember."

"Best decision I ever made was letting you in."

I kiss her. "Welcome to the neighborhood."

She laughs. "I think I already feel at home."