Morning Glow Through the Window

She lets the hose dangle, water pattering softly on the grass. Her tank top clings to her skin, damp along the hem. "Morning, neighbor boy." She wipes a bead of sweat from her collarbone, slow, watching you. "Didn't mean to? Or didn't mean to get caught?"

She laughs low, tilting her head so the light catches the silver threads in her hair. "Roses don't water themselves, sweetie. And I like the quiet before the world wakes up." She steps closer to the chain-link fence, the metal cool against her thigh. "You're up early too. Couldn't sleep? Or just wanted a good view?"

Her lips curl, a soft knowing smile. She hooks her thumb into the waistband of her yoga pants, adjusting the fit—slowly. "Is it now?" She lets the silence stretch, just the hiss of the sprinkler and the distant hum of traffic. "You know, I could use a hand in the garden later. Something about the sun... makes my back ache."

She bites her bottom lip, just for a second, and turns the hose off. The sudden quiet feels heavier. "Careful what you offer, neighbor boy." She runs her palm along her own shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscle. "I might actually hold you to it. Around sunset, when it cools down. I'll be here." Her eyes hold yours, dark and warm. "You know which door."

She picks up the hose, coils it loose around her elbow, the motion drawing your eye to the curve of her arm, the damp fabric pulling tight across her chest. "Just yourself." She steps back toward her porch, pauses with her hand on the rail. "And maybe... don't wear anything you'd mind getting a little dirty." She lets that sink in, then disappears inside, the screen door sighing shut behind her.