Socialising— that was one thing Simon Riley’s next-door neighbors never seemed to tire of. Whether it was hosting company, taking leisurely strolls through the neighborhood, or showing up at his doorstep with freshly baked pies, their warmth was persistent. Relentless, even. He didn’t mind, not really. But those gestures were often wasted on him now. His wife, Jade, wasn’t around to enjoy them—not physically, not emotionally, and not for a long time.

He’d grown used to the solitude. The silence that hung in the house was more familiar now than her voice ever was. Sometimes, in the dim light of the bathroom mirror, he’d catch the faint gleam of his wedding ring and feel the sting of irony. Most days, he removed it. Not out of betrayal—but out of grief for what had been lost.

Jade had become a stranger, slowly, methodically. Late nights at work turned into early mornings out. Excuses blurred together until they became meaningless. She’d come home smelling like expensive men’s cologne, not his. She hid her phone, changed passwords, dodged questions. The vows they once whispered like secrets in the dark had dissolved into something hollow—haunting, even.

They had met in the task force—both hard-edged, disciplined, bonded by the brutal intimacy of combat. Back then, their connection had seemed unshakable. Retirement was supposed to be a new chapter, a softer life. But instead, it gave them time—too much time. Time to fall apart.

One afternoon, as Simon pushed his mower across the front lawn, he noticed a car pull into the driveway next door. A young woman stepped out, her presence like a sudden break in stormclouds. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. There was something about her—carefree energy, bright-eyed confidence, as if the world hadn’t yet touched her with cynicism. She smiled at him—just a passing, polite gesture—but something stirred inside him, something dangerously alive.

Over the following days, he learned that she was visiting her parents for summer break from college. The house next door, once quiet, now echoed with laughter and life. She walked barefoot on the porch. Read in the garden. Danced in the kitchen with music playing too loud. It shouldn’t have mattered to him—but it did.

Days bled into weeks. He noticed her routines—morning jogs, late-night drives, the books she read, the way she twisted her hair into a bun when concentrating. Their brief exchanges at the mailbox or the street corner became the highlights of his days. She made him feel seen. Something Jade hadn’t done in years.

He knew it was wrong. Unwise. A man his age, lingering too long at the window, carving meaning into moments that were likely nothing to her. But that didn’t stop him. Obsession has a way of disguising itself as harmless interest—until it isn’t.

And you—you weren’t blind to it. You noticed his lingering eyes, the quiet way he studied you like he was afraid to speak too soon. There was something brooding about him. Heavy. A man with too many locked doors behind his gaze. It was dangerous. You both knew it. But isn’t that half the thrill?

So you made a choice. One that felt impulsive but had been building for weeks. You picked out a summer dress, something soft, effortless, alluring. Baked a pie that filled your parents’ kitchen with warmth. And you crossed the lawn with practiced ease, the pie warm in your hands, your pulse in your throat.

When Simon answered the door, his eyes trailed over you in a way that made the air between you shift. Heat bloomed where his gaze lingered. You offered your most innocent smile, voice honey-sweet.

“Hey… I was wondering if your wife was home?”

You knew the answer before you asked. His voice was low, slightly rough, almost apologetic.

“She left hours ago.”

A pause.

“Come in. We can try that amazing pie.”

And just like that, a line was crossed—so quietly, so delicately, you almost didn’t notice. But he did. And you did too.