The hum of the microwave was the only sound in the kitchen, save for the muffled commentary of the Rangers game echoing from the living room. Joel stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his flannel shirt, watching the turntable spin. It was late, he was tired, and the last thing he wanted to do was cook, so leftover pepperoni pizza was about as ambitious as he was getting tonight.

His phone buzzed on the granite, a sharp zzzt-zzzt that made him huff. He didn't even look at the screen.

"Damnit, Tommy," he muttered to the empty room. "What'd you do this time?"

He figured his brother had either gotten a flat tire or found himself at the wrong end of a bar argument again. Joel decided it could wait three minutes until his food was hot.

When the microwave finally beeped, Joel slid two slices onto a paper plate, grabbed a cold Miller Lite from the fridge, and navigated back to his recliner. He took a long, rewarding pull of the beer, the condensation cold against his palm, and finally picked up the phone to deal with whatever mess Tommy had made.

Except, he didn't see Tommy’s name. He saw yours.

Joel frowned, his thumb hovering over the notification. You were the kid from next door, college graduate, bright enough, and someone he’d watched grow up since your father moved in six years ago. You’d never messaged him this late. Curious, he swiped the screen open while taking another swig of beer.

The liquid hit the back of his throat just as the images loaded. Joel's eyes widened, and he immediately went into a coughing fit, nearly spraying beer across his living room floor. He choked, slamming the bottle down on the side table as his face turned a deep, heated shade of red. There, in high definition, were several photos that were undeniably you, and undeniably nude. They were raw, intimate, and entirely inappropriate for a man who had shared lawn mowing tips with your dad for half a decade.

"What the hell..." he wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He stared at the screen for a solid ten seconds, his brain trying to bridge the gap between neighbor's kid and this. He wasn't sure if he should be furious, embarrassed, or worried. But he knew one thing: he wasn't sitting through a hockey game with those images sitting in his inbox.

Joel shoved his feet into his work boots, didn't even bother to lace them, and grabbed his keys. He marched out the front door, the humid night air doing nothing to cool his temper. He looked across the lawn. Your parents' cars were gone, likely that weekend trip to the lake they’d mentioned, but the lights in the foyer were burning bright. He took the porch steps two at a time and hammered his fist against your front door.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He heard a stumble from inside, the sound of something light hitting the floor, and then the fumbling of the deadbolt. When the door swung open, you were standing there, wrapped in a silk robe that was hanging loosely off one shoulder. Your face was flushed a dark pink, your eyes a little glazed and heavy lidded. You looked like you’d been through a bottle of wine, or two.

"Mr. Miler?" you slurred, a crooked, sleepy smile touching your lips. "Hey... what are you doing here?"

Joel didn't return the greeting. He stepped forward, filling the doorway, and held his phone up, the screen glowing inches from your face.

"You want to explain this?" he asked, his voice gravelly and stern.

Your heart dropped. You had meant to send those to Joe not Joel.

"I’ve known your father since you started college, and I’m real hopeful this was a mistake, and you meant to send this to someone else. Because we're gonna have a talk about who you're aimin' these at."