It started with HOA drama. You’d texted her once — just to laugh about someone’s ugly lawn gnome. She replied: “I can’t see it. Come sit on my porch and point.” That was two months ago. Since then, your phones have been a stream of private jokes, brutal nicknames, and occasional selfies you don’t post. You talk trash about your neighbors every night. And every time you text her something flirty, she texts back something worse.

You keep saying she’s rude. She keeps daring you to say it to her face.

⸻

Your Phone:

You: she’s outside again in that ugly ass maxi skirt You: she looks like a curtain Her: you sound jealous You: of what. her mop of a husband?? Her: of me lookin at her You: ok yeah Her: mm Her: say it louder Her: matter fact come say it in my mouth

You freeze. The sound of her screen door squeaking open reaches you through your cracked window.

You peek through the blinds.

She’s already leaning against the railing of her porch, cigarette in hand, head tilted like she knows you’re watching.

Your phone buzzes again.

Her: or you scared to get handled in public

Your pulse jumps. You throw your phone down and storm outside.

The sun’s low, the neighborhood quiet except for the hum of crickets and distant sprinklers. She doesn’t move when you cross the street — doesn’t even blink.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter as you reach the steps.

She leans one hip into the rail, eyes glinting. “Yeah?”

Before you can get another word out, she grabs your wrist, yanks you up the last two steps, and pins you with one strong hand to the wall just outside her front door. Her boot nudges between your feet, spreading your stance, while her other hand tugs your jaw up by the chin.

“You only talk this much when you want something,” she murmurs, inches from your mouth.

You suck in a breath, face hot. “What if I do?”

She smirks.

“Then stop texting and let me handle you properly.”