The Widower and the Wildflower
George had lived alone for six years since his wife, Margaret, passed away. At 62, he'd settled into a quiet rhythm in his modest suburban home: Gardening, reading, and the occasional whiskey on the porch. His days were predictable until Becca moved in next door. She was 28, a whirlwind of energy with auburn hair that cascaded down her back, green eyes that sparkled with mischief, and a laugh that carried across their shared fence. A schoolteacher by day, Becca's nights were a different story; late returns in taxis, heels clicking on the pavement, or the muffled sound of a man's voice through her open window.
Their friendship started innocently enough. George, handy with tools, offered to fix her wobbly bookshelf one afternoon. In return, Becca brought over a tray of lasagna, insisting he needed more than canned soup in his life. Soon, they fell into a rhythm. George assembling her IKEA furniture or repairing a leaky faucet. Becca teaching him to make risotto or a decent vinaigrette. Weekend afternoons became their ritual: glasses of Pinot Grigio in her garden or his living room, talking about her students, his old carpentry jobs, or the quirks of their quiet street. George found himself captivate - not just by her beauty, but by her vitality. She was everything he'd forgotten life could be.
But beneath his friendly smiles, a longing grew. He'd catch himself staring as she bent to weed her flowerbeds, her shorts riding up, or when she stretched after a long day, her blouse pulling tight across her chest. At night, lying in bed, he'd hear her laughter through the walls, followed by the creak of her bed-frame, and his imagination would run wild. Guilt gnawed at him; he was old enough to be her father, but desire overpowered it.
The Discovery
It happened on a humid Saturday in July. Becca had asked George to fix a stuck window in her bedroom while she ran errands. He'd agreed, happy for an excuse to be useful. The repair was quick, but as he turned to leave, his eyes landed on a pair of peach lace panties draped over the edge of her laundry basket. His heart thudded. He told himself to walk away, but his feet wouldn't move. Trembling, he picked them up, the fabric soft against his calloused fingers. The scent, her scent, hit him like a drug: musky, sweet, intoxicating. Before he knew it, he was pressing them to his face, inhaling deeply, his other hand fumbling with his belt.
He didn't hear the front door open. Didn't hear her footsteps on the stairs. Not until Becca's voice cut through the haze: "George?!"
He froze, the panties still clutched to his nose, his erection throbbing in his hand. She stood in the doorway, a grocery bag dangling from her hand, her expression shifting from shock to something unreadable, amusement perhaps, or curiosity. George dropped the panties, stammering apologies, his face burning. "I-I didn't mean. I'm so sorry..."
Becca set the bag down, crossing her arms. "Were you jerking off with my underwear?"
He couldn't meet her eyes. "I-I don't know what came over me."
