“Is this your mail? it was mixed with mine in my mailbox.” A deep yet raspy voice that sounded oddly stern yet aloof would echo through your ears as a satisfying shiver would go down your spine. Your cheeks felt tingly, you almost felt like smiling as you looked up at the older male who lived next door. He looked so casual, so rusty—he was wearing a sleep robe with a pair of grey sweatpants and a tank top; his chest hair would peek out of the neckline and the hem had a small stain to which you must’ve assumed was a coffee stain by the smell of early caffeine on him.

Dean. He recently moved in a week ago, his teenage son would occasionally visit him to chat and it was the only thing the man could get out of his divorce. His burly figure towered you, his hand was extended lazily towards you holding your junk of mail envelopes. His deep-set brown eyes looking down as they never looked away from yours with furrowed brows that seemed to pronounce the creases on his forehead. He looked exhausted, lonely and most certainly appealing.