Page 5 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Blake

I’m not spying. I’m just... watching. Casually. From my kitchen window. While drying a dish I already dried. Three times.

Okay, fine. I’m spying a little. But it’s neighborly spying. The concerned kind. Like the I’ve seen her come and go with more guys than I’ve flossed in the last five years. And I’m not judging.

Okay, I am judging, but with love. Because they’re always the same type: bad tattoo choices, worse vibes, and the kind of shoes that say I peaked in high school.

I don’t get it. She’s smart. Funny. Makes murder jokes that feel flirty? She deserves someone who knows what conditioner is and wouldn’t cheat on her with his vape.

The guy from last week had a neck tattoo of a flaming skull and what I’m pretty sure were brass knuckles tucked in his hoodie pocket. The one before that looked like he ran a pyramid scheme out of a van.

And today I watched some slick-haired douchebag try to kiss her outside O’Malley’s Pub. She pulled away like he’d offered her warm mayonnaise and said something I couldn’t hear, but it had the vibe of “not even if you were the last man on earth and I was handcuffed to a cactus.”

I was gonna go over earlier but Officer Carson showed up and that’d have been awkward turning up like a stalker with a care package.

So yeah. I’m getting ready to go now, packing donuts and milk.

It’s not weird. I was already at the store, they had a deal on the good ones, the ones with the sprinkles and that questionable cream filling, and I thought she might appreciate something sugary after surviving yet another nightmare lunch date.

I throw in a few extra napkins, because I’m thoughtful like that, and because I’ve seen her laugh so hard she chokes on powdered sugar. Twice.

The walk to her door feels longer than usual. Like the air’s thicker over here. Her porch light’s still out. I’ve offered to fix it three times. In my head. Maybe tonight I get the balls to offer out loud.

I knock. Three polite, maybe-too-gentle knocks. Then immediately feel like an idiot and knock again, louder.

When she opens the door, she’s barefoot, wearing yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt that says “I LICKED IT, SO IT’S MINE.” I almost drop the donuts.

She looks like trouble. And comfort. Like the kind of woman who’d kiss you stupid and then laugh when you trip over your own feet walking backward.

“Hey,” I say, like a socially competent adult. “Uh. Hey.”

Her eyes narrow slightly like she’s trying to place me, and then she smiles. Not a huge one, just enough to send heat sliding down my spine.

“Blake, right?”

“You remembered,” I say, way too fast. My brain immediately throws itself off a cliff. Cool. Coolcoolcool. Real smooth.

I lift the bag like it’s evidence in a trial. “I brought donuts. Thought you could use something sweet. Looked like a hell-date situation.”

She narrows her eyes. “You were watching me?”

Abort. Abort mission. Pull the pin and eat a grenade.

“I mean, not like in a creepy way. I was just on the way from a job and saw you and that guy, and I wasn’t eavesdropping, obviously, I just, uh happened to be driving by.

With eyes. That function.” I keep vomiting from the mouth.

“And then there was Officer Carson, and I thought treats? Comfort pastries? Chocolate milk for emotional support?”

Jesus, shut up, Blake.

She stares at me. Then the corner of her mouth quirks up. “I’ll see your pastries and raise you some fresh baked snickerdoodles,” she says, stepping aside. “Come in, Donut Man. I was just contemplating murder.”

Oh god, I brought donuts. She probably thinks I’m sweet. I don’t want to be sweet. I want to be pinned to the wall, fingers in her hair, while she feeds me snickerdoodles and says my name like a threat. Wait, murder? That’s a joke. Right?

“I, uh, yeah. Yeah, I can come in. If that’s cool. No pressure. Totally casual.” I step inside before she can rescind the offer and immediately regret it. The place smells like cinnamon, orange zest, and trouble. Like a Yankee Candle themed “mistakes I want to make twice.”

She kicks a pair of glitter-covered sneakers out of the way and jerks her chin at the couch. “You sure you’re not a serial killer? You always bring pastries to women who verbally eviscerate men in pub parking lots?”

“Only the ones who live next door.” I sit down, awkwardly balancing the donut bag on my knees like it’s the world’s most fragile peace offering. “Figured I’d check in. So what’s his count?”

“Derik? That was date one.” She flops into an armchair like we’ve done this a hundred times. Her legs tuck up under her, and my brain immediately malfunctions because bare feet. “He gets three more to redeem himself.”

I tip my head, trying to make sense of her logic. “Wait. That’s a system?”

“Four strikes and you’re out.” She says it like it’s obvious. “Unless he licks his knife or starts quoting Joe Rogan, then I fast-track his ass to the curb.”

“…Wait.” I squint at her. “You’ve got a sexist joke allowance?”

“One or two I can forgive if the food’s good.” She grins, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me and is deeply entertained by it.

I try not to laugh and absolutely fail. “You’re a menace,” I say and offer her the bag.

“Yeah,” she says, dragging a donut from it like it’s a priceless artifact. “I get that a lot.” She takes a bite. Her eyes flutter shut. She moans. Soft. Honest.

My entire soul leaves my body.

She looks like I just handed her the Holy Grail and told her it was filled with Nutella.

It’s not even sexual, except it is, because I’m a man with a pulse and she just moaned like that donut proposed. My dick takes it personally. I try to shift without making it obvious and fail completely.

I don’t speak. I can’t. I just watch her chew and think, not for the first time, that I’m a fucking idiot for not making a move.

She dates men who brag about their crypto portfolios and I’m over here with pastry and respect like some kind of loser.

And then she says, too casually, “You’re too nice, Blake. Keep this up and I’ll think you’re into me.”

I choke. Actually choke. On the chocolate milk. I cough so hard I might die right here on her suspiciously cozy couch.

She doesn’t even pretend to be concerned. Just leans back and smirks like she planned this exact moment. Which… she might have. And I’d still thank her for it.

“I should leave you to whatever,” I say, standing.

She disappears into the kitchen for napkins or maybe a cookie.

Which is fine, because I need a second to breathe and adjust the waistband of my jeans like I didn’t just get semi-hard from watching her lick powdered sugar off her thumb.

That thumb’s committed war crimes in my imagination now.

I could write a whole damn fantasy novel about that thumb.

I glance at the porch, pretending like I’m not lingering. Then I notice the dead porch light again. “Hey,” I call before I can talk myself out of it, “you want me to fix that bulb while I’m here? Won’t take long to screw in a new one.”

She pops her head back around the corner, holding a glass of chocolate milk in one hand and a cookie in the other. Like a snack goddess. “You offering to screw something for me already, Blake? Wow. That was fast.”

My brain bluescreens. “I, I meant the light,” I stammer. “The porch light. Outside. It’s dark. And unsafe. Like, murder-y dark.”

She snorts and leans against the wall, clearly enjoying my internal collapse. “I know. It’s great, right? Makes me feel like I’m in a horror movie every time I come home. Adds ambiance.”

“Let me fix it,” I say. “You got a bulb? I can grab one from my place.”

“I dunno. You got a ladder? A wrench? A license for those arms?” she asks as she nods to a small closet.

Did she just? She totally did.

“Okay,” I say, mostly to myself, pulling out a bulb from the box. “that’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” she calls as I back out the door toward the lightbulb.

“That you’re this quick and that pretty,” I say under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

The bulb’s easy. I pull her wobbly porch chair over to reach it. It’s not OSHA-approved but I’m six-three and stubborn, so it works. I’m just finishing up when the door creaks open behind me.

“You know,” she drawls, “if this whole handyman gig doesn’t work out, you could make a killing modeling Carhartt ads for single moms with repressed fantasies.”

I nearly fall off the chair. I grip the doorframe like it’s a lifeline and say nothing, because my voice is 100% not trustworthy right now.

“Sorry,” she adds, not sorry at all. “It’s just that your entire ass is out here doing the Lord’s work, and I’d be remiss not to appreciate it.”

I’m going to die. Right here on her porch, humiliated and semi-aroused, with a half-twisted lightbulb in my hand and a woman behind me talking about my ass like she’s writing an Amazon review.

Because Jesus. My brain tries to reboot while my dick’s already planning our wedding.

If she asked to bite it, I’d say yes before she finished the sentence.

“I… appreciate the feedback,” I manage.

“Oh, don’t get shy now,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “I already invited you in and fed you. You’re basically on date one.”

I finish tightening the bulb, jump down, and face her. Her eyes are wicked, amused, and still dancing with mischief. I wipe my hands on my jeans and try not to think about what it would be like to pin her against that doorway.

“I should head out,” I say, which is a lie, because I want to stay forever.

She nods, slowly. “Sure. Wouldn’t want to risk you getting in trouble with your real girlfriend.”

That derails my train of thought. “I don’t, what? No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

She smiles wider. “Good to know. It wouldn’t be nice to bring donuts to your neighbor if you did.”

I should walk away. But I just stand there like an idiot with heart eyes and the warm fuzzies of someone who just accidentally flirted his way into a fantasy he’s not cool enough to handle.

Then she says, “Thanks for the light, Blake.”

“You ever need a shelf put up, or another lightbulb changed, or... y’know... just company and donuts, I’m around.” and mean it way too hard.

“You offering handyman services or emotional support?”

Is she flirting? That was flirting, right? Or was that just casual chaos? She’s like a sexy hurricane. How do you flirt back with a hurricane?

“Both. Also I fix dishwashers.”

I make it halfway down the sidewalk before I remember how to breathe. Like really breathe, in through the nose, out through the mouth, not just survive on leftover donut fumes and lust.

She talked about my ass. No, she complimented my ass. Casually. While holding a cookie like she was born to wield weaponized flirtation in a domestic setting.

“Entire ass,” I say under my breath, the words burned into my skull like they were written on the damn porch light.

My ears are hot. My palms are sweating. I’m carrying a half-empty donut bag like it’s a sacred relic and trying not to trip on the uneven pavement because my legs are weak and my brain’s doing that thing where it replays every second of the interaction on loop, but louder.

She invited me in. Made jokes about screwing things. Said I was too nice.

God. Too nice. That’s basically the death sentence of flirtation, right? Code for “sweet but unbangable.” Except she said it while licking sugar off her bottom lip like a woman with murder in her heart and me on her mind.

I unlock my front door with slightly trembling hands and drop the donut bag on the counter like I just returned from war. I don’t even turn the lights on. I just lean against the door and replay her voice again.

“You keep this up and I’ll think you’re into me.”

As if I’m not already so far into her I’m basically a character in her sitcom.

“Blake,” I mutter, “you’re not a teenager. You’re a grown man. You fix things. You own a vacuum. You should not be this worked up because a hot woman made a light innuendo and offered you cookies.”

But then I remember the shirt. That goddamn shirt. I LICKED IT, SO IT’S MINE. All I could think about was licking her. The curve of her waist, her thighs over my shoulders, her laughing into my mouth like sin was a team sport.

The glint in her eyes when she said “Donut Man.” The sound of her laugh when I choked on chocolate milk like a virgin at prom.

Yeah.

I’m doomed.

I take a deep breath and head to the kitchen, already planning how I can casually run into her again. Maybe I “notice” her trash can’s busted. Maybe her garden hose needs replacing. Maybe I just show up with bagels and trauma bonding.

It’s not creepy if I bring snacks.

Right?

…Right?