Martin’s blood still buzzed with adrenaline when he stomped down his driveway, his fists knotted at his sides. The argument with his neighbor, Greg Thompson, had started over a stray soccer ball—and somehow spiraled into accusations of bad parenting, spilled beer, and almost break-ins. Martin was certain he’d end the feud tonight.
He yanked open the gate and charged toward the Thompson house—only to freeze in the glow of the porch light. There, on the top step, stood Ava Thompson: Greg’s wife. She was draped in a long, emerald silk robe, loose at the waist, the fabric whispering across her curves. Her dark hair caught the light in glossy waves; her eyes—soft and amused—locked on him.
“Martin,” she said, voice low and musical, “you look like you could use a drink.”
His pulse stuttered. He barely recognized the warmth in her tone—the same woman who’d always greeted him with polite nods and distant smiles. This Ava leaned against the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey.
He’d come for a fight. All he managed was a hoarse, “I—uh—what?”
She tilted the glass, amber liquid catching the porch light. “Come inside.”
Every instinct screamed no. But his legs moved before his mind caught up. Through the door, the living room stretched wide and inviting: a low fire flickering in the stone hearth, heavy curtains drawn aside to show a star-lit sky, the faint scent of sandalwood in the air. Classical music—Beethoven, maybe—skated across the speakers.
Ava led him to a plush sofa. “Sit,” she said, resting her glass on a side table. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
He sank down beside her, the tension in his shoulders easing under the heat of her gaze. He tried to speak, but the words tangled. She reached out, brushing his cheek with the back of her hand—a whisper of touch that sent a thrill through him.
“Start at the beginning,” she coaxed.
He swallowed. “I came to—” His throat closed. “I came to fight your husband.”
Ava’s lips curved into a gentle smirk. “That bad?”
“I—” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s stupid. I’m… stressed.” He raked his fingers across the sofa’s velvet, trying to focus on anything but the way her robe gaped at her throat.
She laughed, soft and unexpected. “Maybe you don’t need to fight Greg.” Her hand landed on his knee, warm, deliberate. “Maybe you just need…” She paused, leaning in so close he could feel her breath. “Company.”
His heart galloped. The air between them crackled. He tasted whiskey and something darker—possibility.
She settled against him, and with one fluid motion, their lips met. It wasn’t polite or cautious—it was an urgent, searching kiss, electric and fierce. His hands found her waist, fingertips slipping beneath the robe’s edge, memorizing the warmth and softness. Ava responded in kind, pressing against him, her tongue teasing against his lower lip.
The firelight danced across her skin as they moved to the hearth rug. The robe fell open, a green pool at her feet. He marveled at every curve—her back arching under his touch, the smooth plane of her hip, the soft curve of her thigh as she wrapped her legs around him.
Time fractured. There was only heat and breath and the sound of their hearts thundering together. She guided him with gentle strength, grounding him when the moment threatened to overwhelm. He returned the favor with a tenderness that surprised him—an unspoken apology for all the anger he’d carried.
Later, they lay entwined on the rug, the fire reduced to embers. Ava’s head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns across his skin.
“You never needed to fight,” she murmured. “You just needed someone to listen.”
Martin brushed a strand of hair from her face. He thought of Greg—waiting, oblivious upstairs. He thought of the tension draining from his bones, replaced by something softer and warmer.
He pressed a kiss to Ava’s temple. “Thank you.”
Outside, the world held its breath. Inside, behind closed doors, Martin discovered that sometimes the clash of fists only leads you to where you’re truly meant to be.