Page 5 of The Satyr Next Door (Convergence Quickie #1)

Cal

She was coming out earlier.

I’d noticed it three mornings running. The soft slide of her glass door, the whisper of bare feet on the balcony floor. Yesterday, seven-forty-five. Today, seven-thirty. Each day she lingered longer, found more excuses to stay while I worked below.

And she was dressing for it.

Not obvious, nothing that screamed she was trying to impress.

But the rumpled tanks had become fitted tees that hugged the curve of her waist, the silk shorts replaced by cotton ones that clung to her hips, or yoga pants that gave a male ideas.

She braided her hair back, exposing the elegant line of her neck, small gold hoops catching the sun.

She thought she was being subtle. She wasn’t.

Satyrs aren’t subtle either, but we are excellent readers of desire. Survival had often meant knowing the difference between curiosity and disgust, intrigue and fear. And she was broadcasting on frequencies that made my skin tighten with want.

This morning she appeared with a travel mug instead of ceramic, clearly planning to stay longer. She stretched those long legs into the sunlight like an offering and pretended not to watch me wrestle kudzu from the back fence.

I waited until I’d worked up a proper sweat before straightening, letting her see the results, both garden and body. The sun adored me here. It didn’t carry the wild magic of the old forests, but it still knew how to worship a body built for it.

“You’re up early again,” I called, wiping sweat with the towel on the post, making sure the motion showed off muscle.

She startled, caught staring. The flush on her neck was becoming familiar. “The kids don’t need to be up for another hour. I like the quiet.”

“Mmm.” I leaned on the fence, admiring openly. The morning light gilded her hair, lit her skin like Helios himself was trying to claim her. “And the coffee. You seem devoted to it.”

Her laugh came easier now, richer, warmer. It wound around my ribs like silk. “Guilty. I’m not human before my second cup.”

Not human. The irony bit.

“What do you do when you are human?” I asked, curious.

The question surprised her. She sipped, considering. Most humans answered with job titles, obligations. But she hesitated, as if the answer cost something.

“I translate,” she said finally, and her voice warmed. “Books, mostly. Some technical manuals when I'm desperate for money, but the books are what I love. Fiction, poetry, memoirs.” Her fingers traced the mug’s rim. “I used to travel for work. Now I work from home.”

There was loss there. A wistfulness that tugged at my chest.

“Used to?” I prompted.

“Before the kids. Before…” She waved, encompassing life. “You know how it is.”

But I didn’t. My kind didn’t barter passion for practicality. Another advantage or curse of being Other.

“What languages?” I asked, chasing that spark in her voice.

“Italian, French, German. Just enough Portuguese.” Her face lit, and I glimpsed the woman she’d been, the traveler, the scholar, the one who chased words across continents. “There’s something magical about finding just the right word. A concept English doesn’t have. It’s like uncovering a secret.”

She flushed then, realizing how much she’d shared. But I was greedy for it.

“A woman of words,” I murmured. “No wonder you caught my attention.”

Her breath caught. Satisfaction curled low in me, not just at desire, but at glimpsing her passion, herself .

“I’m not—” she began, then faltered.

“You are.” I moved closer to the fence, close enough that she could see me clearly. “You know words can seduce. Turn ordinary moments into myth. Surely you recognize what’s happening here.”

She stared, pupils wide despite the sun. Her scent thickened, sharp and sweet.

“What’s happening here?” she whispered.

Dangerous question. I could have deflected. But she deserved honesty.

“What’s happening,” I said, voice low, “is that a woman who knows the power of stories is finally living in one of her own.”

She set her mug down carefully, as if her hands weren’t steady.

“I don’t live in stories,” she whispered. “I just translate them.”

I hummed and tilted my head. “From where I'm standing, it looks like you’ve been translating your life into something smaller. Safer. More acceptable. Less than what it could be.”

The words struck home. I saw it in her grip on the chair arms, in her sharp inhale, in the way her knees pressed together to contain the want I was stoking.

“You don’t know anything about my life,” she said. But it lacked bite.

“I know you come out earlier every morning.” Another step forward. “I know you dress more carefully. I know you kept my terrible poetry. And I know it’s not just for the coffee.”

Her walls trembled. This was the edge of retreat or risk.

“What are you really asking me?” she whispered.

The truth: not for a neighborly chat. Not for safe curiosity. For something that would complicate both our lives.

“I’m asking if you remember what it feels like to want something just because it’s beautiful,” I said roughly. “Not safe. Not practical. Just alive.”

Her lips parted. For a moment I thought she’d flee. Instead, her eyes searched mine, weighing.

“I remember,” she breathed.

Something unfurled inside me. Tender. Victorious. Because she wasn’t looking at me as other anymore. She was looking at me as a choice.

“I should go,” she whispered. But she didn’t move.

“Should you?” My voice was gentle, but I held her gaze.

“My work…” Her eyes skimmed me, my chest, waist, where human gave way to satyr. No flinch. Only fascination. “People are expecting—”

“Your work will wait,” I said. “Words endure. They’ve waited centuries. But this—” I gestured between us. “This is rarer than translations. Rarer than safety.”

Her breath quickened. She was memorizing me with her eyes.

She saw me. Not the myth, not the Integration Council’s success story. Me. Cal. A man tolerated, observed, but never chosen.

Until now.

“Tomorrow,” I said, making it a promise, not a question. “Ask me what I want from you. And I’ll tell you the truth.”

Her pupils blew wide. Her scent spiked until I had to grip the fence to keep from leaping it.

“That sounds dangerous,” she whispered.

I smiled, letting her see the points of my teeth. “The best things usually are.”

For the first time in too long, I felt truly visible. And utterly, completely alive.