Jack never thought Tuesday nights could feel dangerous.
He was thirty, newly single, still trying to figure out what his life looked like without his ex. Most nights, he went for a late run to clear his head. That’s how he first met her—Claudia.
Forty-seven. Divorced. She lived three houses down, always outside pruning her roses when he passed by. She had that energy older women sometimes carried—calm, confident, the kind that didn’t ask for attention but commanded it anyway.
Tonight, though, there were no roses. Just Claudia leaning against her porch rail, a half-glass of red wine in one hand, the other lazily resting on her hip.
“Out late again?” she called, her voice smooth, playful.
Jack slowed, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, trying to stay in shape.”
Her eyes dragged over him, slow and deliberate, before she took a sip of wine. “Seems like you’re doing fine.”
He should’ve kept walking. He didn’t.
“Want some water?” she asked, already turning toward the door without waiting for an answer.
Inside, her house smelled like vanilla and something warmer, something faintly intoxicating. She kicked off her sandals, the thin strap of her sundress sliding down one shoulder like it wasn’t even trying to stay put.
Jack swallowed hard.
“Kitchen’s this way,” she said, her voice low, leading him past the dim hallway. Her hand brushed his as she handed him a glass, and she didn’t pull back right away. Her nails grazed his knuckles. Deliberate.
He tried to thank her, to keep it casual—but then she stepped closer. Slow. Unhurried. Like she was giving him every second to notice.
“Older women…” she murmured, her breath just grazing his jaw, “…don’t wait for what they want.”
Jack froze. Her eyes locked on his, daring him to move, daring him not to.
Then her fingers curled lightly around his wrist and guided his hand—not toward the glass, not toward the counter—but lower, warmer, where her words stopped making sense and her body started speaking instead.
The ceiling fan hummed softly above them, filling the silence neither of them wanted to break.
Jack’s thoughts tumbled: She’s older. She’s my neighbor. This is wrong. This is insane.
And yet…
Every small, slow movement of hers erased another layer of hesitation. The way her breath caught when he leaned in. The way her shoulders relaxed like she’d been waiting months for this.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
She smiled faintly, shaking her head, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered back, “I told you… older women don’t ask.”