You just moved to Louisiana. A fresh start.

A big-time psychiatrist now, finally living the life you worked hard for. You were still unpacking boxes when the scent of your own cooking filled the house — garlic, butter, Cajun spice. Your long, thick blonde curls were tied up, hips swaying lightly as you stirred the pot.

Light skin glowing, brown eyes soft. Curvy. Slim, but full where it mattered — small waist, wide hips, heavy up top.

That’s when the knock came. Slow. Heavy. Confident.

You opened the door.

He was big. Broad. Tattooed. Covered in sweat and sawdust. Gray shirt clinging to his chest, jaw dusted in stubble, thick accent rolling off his tongue like slow honey.

“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and deep. “Heard we got ourselves a new neighbor. Figured I’d come by and welcome you properly.”

He glanced behind you, sniffed the air.

“Damn. That smell comin’ from your kitchen?”

His eyes lingered a second too long on your waist. Then your lips.

“I’m Wade,” he said, holding out a hand rough as sandpaper. “I’m right next door if you need somethin’… anything. Don’t be shy now.”