Page 2 of The Satyr Next Door (Convergence Quickie #1)

Cal

I hadn’t expected anyone to be home.

By eight-thirty, these neighborhoods emptied out.

All the humans hustling to offices, classrooms, coffee shops.

That had been one of the selling points when the Baltimore Integration Council showed me the property.

Privacy. A chance to exist without the stares, the whispers, the children asking why the man with goat legs didn’t wear shoes.

The Convergence had happened just over a year ago, and humans were still adjusting. Some days better than others.

So I’d planned my morning accordingly: rise early, tame the wilderness that had swallowed the row house's backyard whole, work up a proper sweat without an audience cataloging every difference. Kudzu strangled the fence posts. Virginia creeper smothered the porch. The vines wanted war.

Perfect. I had nothing but time, and violence was excellent therapy.

The shears bit through a thick stem with a satisfying crack. Sweat rolled down my spine, pooling where skin gave way to tawny fur. The September sun promised heat later, the kind of afternoon made for shade and wine and long, lazy hours doing absolutely nothing.

That’s when I felt it. The prickle between my shoulder blades. Was it predator, prey… or simply an interested female?

Usually, that kind of attention meant curiosity. The uncomfortable kind that ended with someone taking photos for social media.

But this felt different. Hungrier.

I let my senses unfurl the way they had in Olympian forests, tasting the air for threat or opportunity. No hostility. Just… appreciation. Distinctly, deliciously female.

I lifted my head.

There she was. Leaning over that narrow balcony, she looked like Aphrodite herself had decided to take morning coffee alfresco.

Dark hair tumbling loose over olive-toned shoulders.

Silk shorts the color of sunrise clinging to curves that made my mouth water.

A thin strap slipped down one arm. Long legs bare to the sun, catching the light like an invitation.

She hadn’t dressed for an audience. This was private, her moment of peace before the chaos inside reclaimed her. But she’d stopped mid-sip to stare, mug frozen halfway to lips made for laughter, for arguments, for sin.

And she wasn’t looking away.

Humans usually had three reactions to satyrs. The religious crossed themselves and fled. The curious snapped photos from a distance. Most avoided eye contact altogether.

Her gaze traveled downward in stages: horns first, always the horns. Then chest, shoulders, muscle carved by genetics and labor. Then further, to where human gave way to satyr. Haunches built for miles. Built for mischief, for pleasure, for anything but restraint.

This was usually the moment they retreated.

But she stayed. Wide-eyed. Breath caught. Wonder softening her face.

Wonder. When had I last seen that?

I felt the grin spread slowly across my mouth. She was stunning in a way that lived in the bones, dark eyes alive with it, a mouth built for trouble, curves that spoke of good food and better wine. Beauty that intoxicated.

And she was my neighbor. Convenient.

“Ah,” I called up, voice warm and easy. “My Juliet appears on her balcony. Though we’re missing moonlight for proper romance.”

She startled, cheeks pink. “It’s eight in the morning.”

Her stammer pleased me more than it should have. I lifted the shears in salute. “Then you’ll be my sunrise instead.”

Her laugh was nervous silk, husky and rich. She tried to hide behind her mug, but not before I caught the smile tugging at her lips. The scent of her interest drifted down, skin warmed with arousal, sharp and sweet as summer wine.

She wasn’t running. Yet.

"Bit much for pruning weeds , don't you think?" she shot back, voice steadier now. Brave.

I let my gaze linger, slow as honey, from the crown of her head to those gorgeous legs. She sucked in a tiny breath. Barely audible, but I heard it. I always heard it.

I stepped closer to the fence line. “Beautiful women deserve beautiful words. Even at eight in the morning.”

She made a desperate sound and stumbled backward like I’d touched her. The mug slipped, shattering across the balcony in a spray of ceramic and coffee.

“Cazzo!” she cursed, fierce and perfect.

Italian. Of course she was Italian. As if temptation needed help.

My laughter followed her inside, rich and wicked. She fled, but not before I saw the flush spreading down her throat. Not before I imagined my tongue chasing that color lower.

Brava, bella. Run now. We both know you’ll be back.

The morning suddenly felt brighter.

Humans had spent the past year figuring out how to live with satyrs, trolls, dryads, orcs and the rest. Some threw festivals. Some protested. Most pretended we weren’t there.

But not her. She’d looked. Really looked.

It had been a long time since anyone had. Long enough, I’d almost forgotten the feeling. Dangerous to want it.

Tomorrow, I told myself, I’d be out here again. The vines would need more cutting. And if she stepped onto that balcony, all dark hair, silk shorts, her coffee mug hiding a smile. A satyr could hope.

My neighbor was going to be excellent entertainment.

* * *

The next morning, I rose early. Shears in hand. Whistling something half-remembered from the old days.

The vines were waiting, greedy things. Kudzu curled like jealous lovers. Virginia creeper clung like it meant to drag the porch into its grave. A worthy opponent.

But I wasn’t only here for vines.

I was here for the balcony.

It was empty, for now. Perhaps she slept in, worn from wrangling the children I’d heard thundering out yesterday. Or maybe she was behind those curtains already, debating if the neighbor with horns and hooves was worth another look.

I snipped a stem with ceremony, flexing just enough. Satyrs aren’t subtle. We don’t pretend to be.

“Your Juliet awaits,” I murmured to the empty air, grinning. “Perhaps she’s dressing for the occasion.”

Silence answered. Birds. A car brake squealed up the street. No Juliet yet.

Well. I could wait.

The work was real. Sweat ran down my back, shears biting through stubborn wood. But every few cuts, I cast my gaze up, imagining her stepping out, silk catching the light, mug hiding that smile.

Would she laugh again if I called her Rapunzel? Or Beatrice, come to scold me for wickedness?

Her laugh had loosened something in my chest I hadn’t realized was bound tight.

Careful, Cal.

So I trimmed the vines with extra flair, humming loud enough to carry. If she came out, she’d hear it. If she looked, she’d see a satyr at his best: golden hair in the sun, arms busy, smile waiting.

Not tragic. Not Other.