Page 4 of The Satyr Next Door (Convergence Quickie #1)

Cal

I wasn’t raised to write sonnets. Satyrs sang, we danced, we played the pipes until mortals blushed and begged for mercy.

We left verses carved into tree bark and songs tangled in ivy, not tidy lines on folded paper.

Poetry was meant to be wild, intoxicating, something that grabbed you by the throat and dragged you into the woods where civilization couldn't follow.

But when a beautiful, dark-eyed woman told me not to call her Juliet unless I meant it, I found myself thinking in rhyme.

So I picked the ripest grapes from the arbor I’d nursed back from neglect, rolled ink across paper, and shaped the words the way I might shape a melody. Not polished. Not perfect. But true. Then I left them with a single fig where she’d find them.

This time, I retreated to the safety of my kitchen but stayed close enough to see her reaction.

My kitchen was still shamefully new, like the rest of the furniture in the house. Not at all like the possessions I'd carried before the Convergence pulled our worlds together. No photographs. No family heirlooms. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the silence of a house too empty for comfort.

I poured honey wine into my favorite mug, a thick ceramic thing that looked hand-thrown because it was.

It was made by a dryad in Oregon who understood that some of us needed beauty to survive the beige suburban wasteland.

It was early for wine, even by satyr standards, but my nerves needed settling.

I leaned against the window ledge that overlooked the yard, positioned perfectly to see her balcony.

I told myself I was waiting to make sure the fruit didn't spoil in the sun.

But the truth was simpler and more dangerous: I wanted to watch her read my words.

The sliding door opened, and she stepped outside with her coffee, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, still damp from a shower.

The scent drifted down to me on the morning air, something floral and clean that made my chest tighten with want.

She moved cautiously, as if she expected another surprise, wary but curious in that way that made me want to give her a thousand reasons to keep looking.

Her gaze landed on the folded page and the fig gleaming beside it like a jewel. She froze, coffee mug halfway to her lips.

My pulse, kicked harder.

I abandoned the window and moved out the back door and to the fence, leaning my forearms against the weathered post, shameless in my watching. Let her see me waiting.

She picked up the note delicately, unfolded it, lips moving as she read.

For Bella of the Balcony

The figs are jealous of your lips,

The grapes envy your hips,

The vines themselves unclasp their hold

To show you secrets they’ve long rolled.

Your sigh could bend the strongest oak,

Your laugh, sweetest kind of smoke.

I’d brave a thousand ladders tall,

If hooves could climb, I’d risk the fall.

So tell me, Bella, name divine

And I’ll make you my sonnet line.

Her cheeks flushed crimson, the color spreading down her throat to disappear beneath the loose tee shirt she was wearing this morning. She pressed the paper flat against the railing like she wanted to pin it there, make it permanent, keep it safe.

"Presumptuous," she muttered, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, curving upward despite her best efforts.

My grin came slow, and deliberate. "I warned you. Passionate by nature."

She glared over the rim of her mug, dark eyes flashing with something that might have been indignation if not for the heat beneath it. "That isn't a sonnet. That's—" She waved the paper at me, exasperated. "That's shameless flirtation disguised as poetry."

"Thank you." I gave a little bow, horns catching the morning light, enjoying the way her breath caught at the gesture. "I try to be honest in my work."

She rolled her eyes heavenward, muttering for patience, but the smile tugging her lips betrayed her.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s a sin to tease?” she asked, sharp on the surface, breathless underneath.

“Depends on the saint.” I let my gaze roam the length of her until her cheeks burned hotter. “Dionysus would call it holy.”

Her laugh slipped out, quick and husky, unguarded. Gods, I wanted more. I wanted to collect her laughter like coins, hoard it against the long winters of this human world.

“Dionysus wasn’t a saint,” she said, voice softer now.

“No,” I agreed, stepping closer to the fence until I could smell her coffee, the sweetness of fig juice on her lips. “He's better. Honest about what he wants.”

Her pulse lept, visible in her throat. I could smell herarousal, rich and heady. She wanted to to ask what I wanted. I could see it forming.

Instead, she folded the paper carefully and slipped it into her pocket. Close to her body. Kept. Saved.

Something in me unclenched. She hadn’t thrown it away.

For a satyr who’d spent too many nights with silence for company, that was no small victory.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write you a song,” I said, casual shrug. “A reprieve from my terrible poetry.”

That earned me another laugh, lighter this time.

“It’s not terrible,” she admitted, patting the pocket. “Shameless, yes. Terrible, no.”

“High praise, Juliet.”

She sipped her coffee instead of answering, but she didn’t go inside. Didn’t retreat.

Progress.

“I should…” She trailed off, glancing toward her door, remembering duty.

“Go,” I said gently. “You have a life outside of keeping me company.”

Her laugh was startled, bright. “Right. A life of laundry and emails.”

“The most important kind.” And I meant it.

She smiled, unguarded, and something shifted. Not just attraction, though that crackled like a storm, but recognition. A beginning.

“Same time tomorrow?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she said. But this time, maybe sounded like yes.

After she went inside, I stayed at the fence, breathing in her lingering scent.

Perhaps it was time to stop waiting and start hoping.

Tomorrow, I’d ask if she wanted to come closer.