Linda had just turned sixty-two, but nothing about her life felt slow. Divorced for seven years, she lived alone in a quiet cul-de-sac, keeping her world neat and controlled — at least on the surface. What people didn’t see, what she never told anyone, was how restless her nights were.
That night, Tom — her neighbor, fifty-nine, widowed two years ago — came over to fix a broken cabinet hinge. He smelled faintly of cedar and clean soap, the kind of scent that clings and lingers. Linda kept telling herself this was harmless, just a favor between neighbors. But the moment he stepped into her kitchen, the air shifted — thick, charged, as if the walls themselves leaned closer to listen.
She stood beside him, holding the flashlight as he crouched, their arms brushing with every movement. Each touch was fleeting, accidental, yet it sent heat crawling up her neck. She hated how obvious it felt, how easily her body betrayed her.
“Can you hold it a little higher?” Tom asked, glancing up.
The way his voice dipped — lower, rougher than usual — made her grip tighten on the flashlight. “Sure,” she whispered, but it came out too soft, too breathy.
He noticed.
Tom rose slowly, wiping his hands on a rag, his shoulders nearly grazing hers as he straightened. He didn’t move away. Neither did she. The hum of the fridge was the only sound between them, yet her pulse roared in her ears.
His hand brushed hers as he reached for the screwdriver. The touch lasted half a second — no longer — but Linda’s whole body reacted. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, legs tensing beneath her thin cotton dress. She tried to breathe evenly, but the air felt heavy, thick, refusing to fill her lungs.
He caught the movement.
“You okay?” Tom asked, leaning in just enough for his breath to warm her cheek.
Linda nodded, but her lips parted slightly, as though words had slipped away from her. She didn’t want to be obvious, didn’t want to cross the line, yet her fingers curled against the edge of the counter, white-knuckled, trying to anchor herself. Her body was saying everything her voice refused to.
Tom’s gaze lingered on her mouth before climbing back to her eyes. “You’re tense,” he said softly.
The way he said it wasn’t casual. It was knowing.
Linda swallowed hard. “I’m fine,” she lied, but when he rested his hand lightly against her lower back — barely there, just fingertips — she couldn’t hide the subtle twitch that rippled through her body. She squirmed against the counter, shifting to relieve the ache coiling deep inside her.
He felt it. He knew.
Neither of them moved for a long, suspended second, their breathing synchronized without meaning to. Then she turned, slowly, deliberately, until they were face-to-face. Close enough that if either of them leaned forward just slightly, there would be no going back.
Her lips parted, ready to say something — anything — but Tom reached first, cupping her hand gently. He didn’t pull her in, didn’t kiss her. Instead, his thumb traced along the inside of her wrist, slow circles that made her knees soften beneath her. The smallest touch, and it was unbearable.
Linda’s breath hitched. She looked up through her lashes, holding his gaze longer than she should have.
That was when he murmured, almost against her ear, “You don’t have to fight it.”
And she didn’t.
By the time he left that night, the cabinet was fixed, but everything else between them had cracked wide open. Linda leaned against the closed door afterward, heart pounding, body still humming, realizing with startling clarity that for some aches, surrender wasn’t weakness — it was the only relief.