The neighbor's burger

He’s lived next door for two years, Mark, 48, recently divorced, works in IT, quiet, always polite. He mows the lawn shirtless on Saturdays, waves when I’m on my porch studying, sometimes brings over extra tomatoes from his garden. Normal neighbor stuff. But there’s always been this low-key tension: lingering eye contact, the way he’d laugh a little too long at my dumb jokes.

Last week my parents were away. Friday night I’m on my back patio reading, string lights on, wearing an old college T-shirt and soft cotton shorts, no bra. He’s on his side of the fence grilling something, classic rock playing low. He calls over, “Want a burger? I made too many.” I say sure.

I hop the low fence. We eat on his patio, drink a couple beers, talk about nothing and everything: his ex, my classes, how weird it feels being an adult. It’s easy. Comfortable. After the second beer the conversation slows and we just look at each other. Finally he says, very quietly, “I’ve wanted to kiss you for months. Tell me if I’m out of line.”

I wasn’t out of line.

He kisses me soft at first, careful, like he’s waiting for me to stop him. I don’t. It turns deeper, hungrier. He pulls me onto his lap on the patio chair. My shirt rides up, his hands slide underneath, warm on my bare back. We’re both breathing hard. He asks, “You sure?” at least three times. I keep saying yes.

We move inside to his couch. Clothes come off slow: my shirt, his, my shorts, his jeans. A little awkward laughing when my hair gets caught in his watch. He’s thick in the middle, has scars and stretch marks, and I’ve never found anyone sexier. He uses a condom from his wallet (he actually blushes when he pulls it out). When he pushes inside me it’s slow, careful, eye contact the whole time. It feels… overwhelming in the best way. Not porn-star screaming, just quiet gasps and “you okay?” and my legs wrapped around him.

After I come (small, rolling, perfect), he follows a minute later, groaning into my neck. We stay like that for a long time, him still inside me, stroking my hair. Then he gets up, brings me water, pulls a blanket over us. We talk until 3 a.m., do it again slower on the rug in front of his fireplace, fall asleep tangled on the couch.

He walked me home at sunrise, kissed me on my porch like a teenager, and said, “I’d really like to take you to dinner. A real date. If you want.”

I said yes. We’ve had three real dates since, and yeah, the sex keeps happening, but it started with burgers, cheap beer, and two people who were scared to make the first move.

Sometimes the hottest thing is when it’s just… real.