I was watering my balcony plants in a silk wrap that behaved like it had secrets when I saw him again—my handsome mid-twenties neighbor with the nice shoulders and the unfair grin.

“Evening, Heather,” he said, and offered to check my sticky window. I offered wine. We both pretended we were practical.

Inside, the evening went golden. I moved the way a busty MILF moves when she likes what she’s hunting. The window “repair” became a tour, the tour became two glasses set too close together. My wrap refused to stay entirely respectable. He noticed. I wanted him to notice.

“Do you always dress like this for home improvement?” he asked.

“Only when I’m very motivated,” I said, smoothing silk over a curve he was studying. He looked away, then back, then didn’t bother pretending. I took his hand and let him feel how soft trouble can be.

We didn’t rush. We savored. Compliments turned into kisses and kisses into confessions. The wine went forgotten; the window stayed unrepaired; the night grew slow and sweet with heat. When it finally tipped from flirting into something that needed fewer words, I smiled into his mouth and warned, “Careful, handsome—once you come over, you’ll never want to leave.”

Much later, he left anyway, dazed and grinning, promises in his pocket. I locked the door, leaned back, and hummed with satisfaction. My neighbor has a new hobby. I have a new favorite visitor.

If the window sticks tomorrow, I suppose I’ll need help. I’ll wear something appropriate. I’ll be terribly, wonderfully helpful.