My Sexy Neighbor - Prologue Free | Download -unc...

“I know,” I said. “The age gap. The neighbor thing. The ‘Unc’ thing.”

“Oh,” I said.

He smiled—the first real, unguarded smile I’d seen on him. Then he pulled me inside, and we didn’t talk for a long time.

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Over the next months, that became our rhythm. He taught me to change a tire. I brought him fresh bread on Sundays. He told me about his late wife, Lena, who’d died two years before I moved in. I told him about my ex, Mark, who’d told me I was “too much.”

I was on the floor, ankle-deep in soapy water, crying over a breakup I thought I’d handled, when a knock came at 11 p.m.

We still sit on the porch swing on Sundays. He still fixes things before they break. I still bake bread. But now, when the light flickers, he doesn’t knock—he just walks in. “I know,” I said

One Saturday, I knocked on his door to return his hoodie (he’d lent it to me during a power outage). He opened the door shirtless, towel around his neck, fresh from a shower. I’d seen him in work boots and grease-stained shirts. I’d never seen the scar on his ribs from a motorcycle accident, or the way his hair curled when wet.

The first month, I saw Unc exactly twice: once taking out recycling (glass jars only, neatly rinsed), once fixing the shared mailbox with a screwdriver and a patience I didn’t know existed. He was maybe forty, with salt-and-pepper stubble, broad shoulders, and the kind of tired eyes that said I’ve already learned the lesson you’re about to learn.

“Yeah,” he said, and for the first time, he looked flustered. The ‘Unc’ thing

When I moved into the ground-floor apartment at 42 Porch Swing Lane, the landlord warned me about my upstairs neighbor.

“Tea,” he said. “With honey. You look like you haven’t slept.”

“You don’t need a key,” I said, standing in his doorway, “if you’re already home.”

“That’s Cal,” he said, nodding toward a pair of worn work boots on the second-floor landing. “Everyone calls him Unc. He’s quiet, fixes things, and keeps to himself. But if you ever need help—real help—he shows up.”

A year later, I gave him back the spare key. Not because I was leaving—because I was staying.