The kettle clicked off, steam curling against the window. She poured the tea into mismatched mugs and slid one across the counter. Her best friend accepted it with a grin, their shoulders brushing as she leaned on the counter like she belonged there  - which, after twenty years of friendship, she did.

Her phone buzzed against the counter. Unknown number.

I’ll be around later to check the guttering.

She frowned, blinking at the screen. “What the…?”

Her friend glanced up. “What’s the matter?”

“I just got a text from someone I don’t know,” she muttered, squinting. “They’re coming to check the guttering.”

There was a pause, then it clicked. Her neighbour’s son. He’d been gone a few years, off at university, or traveling; she couldn’t remember. She’d made a vague promise to his mother that if he was home for the summer, he could help with the endless list of repairs before she sold the place. She hadn’t thought twice about it at the time.

“Oh my God,” her friend said, nearly choking on her tea. “You mean the handsome twenty-something next door is coming around to check your guttering?”

She rolled her eyes, setting the mug down a little harder than she meant to. “Stop. He’s young enough to be my son.”

“Hardly,” her friend teased. “Your son would be what, seventeen? This one’s all grown up and very easy on the eyes. You should be thrilled.”

She shot her a sharp look, though her ears warmed. “Thrilled is not the word. I just need the damn gutters cleared.”

“Mhm.” Her friend drained her tea, grinning as she stood to leave. “Well, when Prince Charming shows up with a ladder, I expect every detail.”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, ushering her toward the door.

Her friend laughed all the way down the front path, tossing a “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” over her shoulder.

She shut the door with a huff, phone still in hand. Her stomach gave a little, traitorous twist.

---

The doorbell rang just as she was wiping down the counters. She pressed her palms against her jeans, ridiculous nerves skittering in her stomach, and opened the door.

And there he was.

She almost didn’t recognise him at first, the last image she had was all sharp elbows and teenage slouch. But now… now he filled the doorway, broad shoulders framed in a plain T-shirt, tool belt slung low on his hips. He smiled easily, like he belonged there.

“Hi, Mrs. Keen.” His voice had dropped a register since she’d last heard it, steady and warm. “I’m here about the guttering.”

Her mouth went dry. Not a boy. Definitely not a boy.

“It’s—uh, it’s actually just Ms. now,” she corrected quickly, the word catching in her throat.

His smile deepened, slow and knowing, like he was filing that away. “Ms., then.”

“Oh. Right. Yes, of course.” She stepped back, gesturing him inside. “Thank you for—coming over.”

Awkward. Her voice was awkward.

He ducked slightly as he came through, though he didn’t need to, and the faint smell of sawdust and soap clung to him. He carried himself with an easy confidence, glancing around the house like he’d already mapped the job in his head.

“You’ve got a ladder in the garage?” he asked, looking at her directly.

“Uh—yeah. Yes, there should be one.” She hated the way her words stumbled over each other.

He smiled faintly, as if he noticed. “I’ll grab it. Shouldn’t take long.”

She followed him toward the garage, arms crossed tight, trying to mask the way her pulse was picking up. It was unsettling, unnerving, to realise he moved like a man who knew what he was doing, muscles shifting under his shirt as he hefted the ladder like it was nothing.

“You don’t have to hover,” he said, glancing back at her with a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I’ve got it handled.”

She told herself to relax, to stop overthinking. But as he carried the ladder outside, sunlight catching in his hair, the thought pressed sharp and insistent in her mind:

He’s not the neighbour’s boy anymore. He’s a man. And I don’t know how to act around him.

---

By late afternoon the house was quiet except for the scrape of his ladder against the siding and the occasional thud when he shifted it to a new angle. She tried not to notice, but every time she glanced out the kitchen window she caught him moving - steady, efficient, sweat darkening his shirt across his back and chest.

When the sound of tools finally stilled, she pulled two glasses from the cupboard and filled them with lemonade and ice. Hospitality, she told herself. That was all.

He stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and there was a faint streak of dust across his jaw. He looked… good. Too good.

“All done,” he said, dropping his tool belt to the floor with a thump. His grin was easy, boyish, but it did nothing to soften the way her chest tightened.

She slid a glass across the counter toward him. “Here. You must be thirsty.”

“Thanks.” He took it, their fingers brushing briefly, and the contact sent an unexpected jolt through her. He tipped the glass back in one long swallow, throat working as he drained half of it in seconds.

“Appreciate it,” he said, setting the glass down. His eyes flicked over her, quick but deliberate, before he added, “By the way, there are a few other things I noticed while I was up there. Loose shingles, some wood rot near the eaves. I can come back tomorrow, get started on it.”

Her stomach fluttered. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I don’t mind,” he interrupted smoothly. His mouth quirked, that same faintly knowing smile as before. “Besides, it’ll take more than one day to get this place ready to sell, won’t it?”

She looked down at her glass, swirling the ice just to have something to do with her hands. He was right, of course. The house needed the work. She needed the help. That was all this was.

Still, as he leaned back against the counter, wiping a sheen of sweat from his temple, the thought tugged at her unbidden:

Tomorrow. He’ll be here again tomorrow.

---

She told herself she wasn’t dressing for him. She’d just been in a rut lately, that was all. So she took a little more care with her hair, dabbed on some mascara, picked a top that made her feel… put together. Not sexy, just… presentable.

By the time his knock came, her heart was already doing ridiculous gymnastics.

He was at the door in the same worn T-shirt as yesterday, tool bag slung over one shoulder. He glanced at her, at her hair, at the faint gloss on her lips, and for a split second his mouth curved. That smile. That knowing smile.

“Morning,” he said easily, stepping inside. “I should get started. If I take too long, mum’s going to start wondering what I’ve been up to.”

Her stomach dropped. Cold water. Just like that. She forced a laugh, stepping back. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

As he disappeared down the hall with his bag, heat rushed to her cheeks. What on earth had she been thinking? Dressing up like some teenager with a crush. He was being polite, doing a favour for the neighbour, and she was… ridiculous. Naïve.

She busied herself with laundry, the clatter of dishes, anything to drown out her own thoughts.

But later, when she passed the living room, she realised he’d stopped working. He was leaning against the ladder, wiping his hands, watching her. Not the casual glance of someone waiting for instructions - he was studying her.

“You don’t have to hover,” she said, echoing his words from yesterday.

His smile sharpened and his eyebrows raised, almost impressed with her sudden retort. “I wasn’t. I was just noticing how different you look today.”

Her pulse spiked. “Different?”

He tilted his head, eyes locking with hers. “Like you wanted me to notice.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Heat pooled low in her belly, traitorous and insistent. She quickly looked away.

He stepped closer, voice dropping, the air between them humming. “Eyes on me.”

Her breath caught.

“Good,” he murmured, approval curling through the word like smoke. “Just like that.”

Her hands tightened on the basket she was holding, knuckles white. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t said anything explicit, but her whole body buzzed like he’d crossed every line.

And then, as casually as he’d started, he straightened and reached for his tools again. “I’ll finish up the trim in here.”

She stood frozen, heart racing, every nerve in her body alive with the memory of his voice.

She tried to steady her breathing as he turned back to his work, hammer tapping against wood, the scrape of sandpaper filling the room. But her body wouldn’t cooperate; her skin prickled, her pulse throbbed in her throat, her mind circling around those three words like a moth to flame.

When she finally set the laundry basket down and dared to move past him, he glanced up. Their eyes caught, just for a heartbeat, and she knew he saw it - the flush in her cheeks, the tension in her jaw, the way her steps faltered.

And then he chuckled. Low. Knowing.

She lingered in the doorway longer than she meant to, heart still racing from his words. He bent to gather his tools again, muscles flexing under the damp fabric of his shirt, and she forced herself to look away.

“Can you hold this for me a second?” His voice cut clean through her thoughts.

Before she could answer, he was already in front of her, pressing a length of wood into her hands.

The sudden nearness made her breath stutter. His fingers brushed over hers deliberately, curling her grip tighter around the beam.

“Not like that,” he murmured, stepping closer, his chest almost brushing hers. “Here.”

He adjusted her hands, his palms warm, rough from work. The movement was simple, instructional, but the way he lingered — the way his thumb swept lightly across the inside of her wrist — made every nerve in her body stand to attention.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She swallowed hard. “I… I’ve got it.”

He leaned in, just enough that she could feel his breath against her temple. “Good girl.”

The words sank into her, her knees nearly buckled at the sound.

He chuckled under his breath, as though he’d caught the exact moment her body betrayed her again.

She blinked up at him, wide-eyed, but he only stepped back, releasing her hands as if nothing had happened. “That’ll hold it.”

Just like that, the contact was gone — and she was left gripping the wood with trembling fingers, trying to steady her breathing, trying not to imagine what it would feel like if he hadn’t stopped there.

By late afternoon, the sun had slipped low, pouring amber light through the windows. He was gathering his tools, each clink and scrape sounding louder than it should in the quiet house.

She stayed near the kitchen, pretending to fuss with a dish towel, though really she was just trying to get her breathing under control.

Every time she thought she’d steadied herself, she’d catch a flash of memory — his hands closing over hers, the low rasp of good girl in her ear — and her stomach would tighten all over again.

He slung his bag over one shoulder and turned toward the door. “That’s it for today,” he said, casual as anything, but his eyes lingered on her face a moment longer than they needed to.

She managed a nod, throat dry. “Thanks for—well, for everything you did.”

He gave her that half-smile again, the one that made her feel like he saw more than she wanted him to. Then he stepped past her, close enough that the warmth of him brushed her arm, and reached for the door.

Just before he pulled it open, he glanced back. His voice dropped, softer, lower, intimate enough that she felt it more than heard it.

“Look after yourself,” he said, his mouth curving faintly.

And then he was gone, the front door clicking shut behind him.

She stood rooted to the spot, the towel clenched tight in her hands, his words echoing in her chest.

---

She should have been asleep hours ago. Instead, she lay tangled in the sheets, staring at the ceiling as the shadows shifted across it.

Every time she closed her eyes, his voice came back — low and certain, warming something inside her that hadn’t had attention in years.

She rolled onto her side with a groan, snatched her phone from the nightstand, and opened her messages.

You’ll laugh at me.

Her friend’s reply came quick, like she’d been waiting for this.

Already laughing. Tell me.

She bit her lip, fingers hesitating before typing:

I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s ridiculous.

A moment’s pause. Then:

I knew it! So? What’s the problem?

She huffed out a laugh, burying her hot face in the pillow.

He’s twenty-something. I’m a middle-aged divorcée... It’s insane.

Her friend sent back an eye-roll emoji, then:

He’s a man. You’re a woman. End of story. Go for it.

She shook her head, dropping the phone onto her chest. “Go for it.” As if it were that simple. As if she hadn’t built an entire life out of restraint, out of pretending not to want what she wanted.

And yet.

She reached into the drawer of the nightstand, hesitating only a second before pulling out the vibrator she hadn’t touched in… longer than she wanted to admit.

She told herself she just needed the release, that maybe then she could finally sleep. But as she slid beneath the sheets again, the voice in her head wasn’t her own.

Eyes on me.

Her pulse jumped, heat coiling tight as she pressed the toy to her skin.

Good girl.

She bit down hard on a whimper, the words playing over and over, wrecking her resolve.

She turned the vibrator onto its lowest setting, a gentle hum, and traced it over the fabric covering her breasts. Her nipples hardened with arousal. The first wave of pleasure sent electricity coursing through her body and suddenly she felt twenty again, alive and vibrant.

She dragged the toy down her centre to the top of her pyjama shorts. Not wanting to come too soon, she slid the toy inside but rest it over the fabric of her panties.

She increased the intensity of the vibrator, pressing it against her clit, wetness coated  her underwear. Her back arched as more waves of pleasure enveloped her. She pictured the muscles on his arms and his hands around his tools, imagining how good his fingers would feel inside of her.

She ground against the silicone toy buzzing between her legs. Soft moans escaped her lips as she built towards her climax. She imagined his voice telling her what a good girl she was for riding his fingers so beautifully and it had her clutching her sheets. Her orgasm hit, intense and wild. She let out a guttural cry of euphoria before slamming her hand down across her mouth remembering he was just next door.

As she came down from her high, she lay shuddering in the dark, chest heaving, she couldn’t stop the flush of shame and want that tangled together so thickly it was impossible to separate.