Chapter Text
I looked down at the paper in my hand, the one from the doctor with my fertility results. She’d already explained everything in her office, but somehow seeing it in writing hit harder. I don’t have much time left. Not many eggs. It's basically now or never if I want to get pregnant.
And I have no options. My last boyfriend turned out to be a drug dealer, and the one before that? Gay. Neither of them particularly brilliant or charismatic, if I’m being honest. I don’t have any close male friends, and my best friend lives across the country ever since I moved to Texas.
I’ve wanted a child for as long as I can remember, since I was little enough to play dress-up with my dolls. I always imagined having at least three smiling babies. Now there’s a real chance I might never even have one.
“Sarah, c’mon now, you're going to be late!”
I lifted my head and looked through the kitchen window. There he was—those familiar long legs in worn denim, the broad shoulders, the obnoxiously muscular arms.
That’s Joel Miller. The man across the street. And he is a real boring asshole.
His truck is loud enough to wake the dead every morning. That’s how I learned his name, actually, plastered all over the side in bold letters: *Miller Brothers Construction – Hard Hats, Honest Work.* What does that even mean?
I looked him up once, I couldn’t help it. Found his cheesy smiling face on the company website, right next to his brother Tommy. I’ve seen Tommy around a few times, over for cookouts or picking Joel up.
Both of them have bios on the site. Tommy Miller “loves being with his wife and son” blah blah. Joel Miller “enjoys spending time with his daughter, fishing” and even more blah blah. They sound like the human equivalent of unsalted crackers.
But being boring isn’t a crime. It’s not why I dislike him.
That started the day I moved in.
I was lugging my last suitcase from the moving van I'd rented when I heard his voice. Low and growly.
"You need help, ma'am?"
"No I'm okay-" I started but he was already taking the handle from me, lifting the bag as if it weighed nothing. His arms were so solid under his black t-shirt.
He moved quickly down my driveway, heading for the open door of my new house. I had a great view of his ass in those jeans as he moved.
I can admit I was attracted to him for a moment. Just the tiniest, shortest moment. Before he really opened his mouth. I followed him inside like a useless puppy, nothing to do just follow. He walked right in and didn't even bother wiping his shoes. So much for Southern manners.
"Just there by the table is fine."
He let the bag down by the side of my kitchen table before he took a moment to see the boxes and bags I'd unloaded.
"Thank you for your help," I said trying not to be upset by the dirt he'd tracked in.
"My pleasure, ma'am," he said softly. "But if I'm honest, it's shameful your husband didn't help you with this."
My eye twitched. "No husband."
"You mean you're going to live here all on your own?"
I'm a pretty nice person most of the time. But this comment really pissed me off.
"Yeah, they're letting us women-folk work too. Can you believe I have a job?"
He didn't stick along after that. He just muttered that he needed to pick up his daughter from school and I was glad to see the back of him.
After that we didn't talk much.
The only thing that ever saved him from a flaming bag of dog crap on his porch was his daughter. Sarah. She’s a teenager, but somehow still polite, smart, beautiful, and actually friendly, which is suspicious in and of itself. She waves when she sees me. Says “yes, ma’am” without sounding sarcastic. Honestly, she seems like the kind of kid people brag about on Facebook with a million heart emojis.
On the weekends she’s at her mom’s I catch Joel puttering around the yard alone. He never smiles. Just scowls at weeds like they personally offended him. I’ve never seen someone take landscaping so seriously and look so miserable doing it.
We never actually fought. Not really.
Just exchanged glares over hedges and passive-aggressively outdone each other.
I made a point of keeping my yard pristine. Edged, trimmed, and greener than his by a mile. I even bought one of those fancy solar-powered sprinklers.
Joel retaliated by reseeding his whole front lawn and installing a flower bed that, unfortunately, looked incredible.
When I put out tasteful fall decorations, one pumpkin, a witches hat, he rolled out a literal hay bale display with a scarecrow wearing a Miller Brothers hard hat.
The neighbourhood association newsletter featured a picture of it under the caption “Festive and Fun!” I considered reporting him for emotional terrorism.
It didn’t stop there. He started waving to all the other neighbours like he was running for office. And they loved him. Old Mrs. Delaney even brought him cookies once. She’s never looked me directly in the eye.
So now we’re locked in a Cold War of suburban perfection. He trims his hedges? I repaint my porch swing. I host a book club? He starts handing out homemade jerky from some weekend hunting trip.
The man is everywhere. Helping people carry groceries. Fixing someone’s porch railing. Once I caught him rescuing a cat from under a car and nearly sprained an eye rolling it.
But I’ll be damned if I lose. I started composting. I learned how to patch drywall. I helped Mrs. Delaney carry her Costco haul and smiled so hard I think I pulled something in my face.
We don’t speak, but we know. We know. It's petty. It's exhausting. And it's the most thrilling part of my week.
I’d just gotten back from the store, struggling with a massive bag of potting soil because my dumb ass decided my flower beds needed a full spring refresh *that day.* I was halfway up the driveway, arms straining, when the bag slipped out of my grip and split open across the concrete.
Soil everywhere. Like a garden crime scene.
I froze, already sweating and swearing internally, when I heard that familiar voice across the street:
“You know, they make those in smaller bags. For normal people.”
I looked up. Joel was leaning against his mailbox like some denim-clad statue of smug masculinity, arms crossed, that annoying little smirk playing at his mouth. I didn’t answer. Just knelt down and started scooping dirt back into what remained of the bag, muttering curses under my breath.
A few minutes later, I heard the clatter of something plastic hitting the ground beside me. Sitting there was a brand-new bag of potting soil. Same brand. Still sealed.
I couldn't even look at him I was so embarrassed.
"I don't need your pity."
"It ain't pity," he told me as he left. "Your garden looks like shit and it's bringin' down the value of the rest of the houses on the block."
I wanted to punch that smug look off his face. I wanted to slap the twang out of his mouth. But I still used the damn soil.
Then there was the mailbox. Mine had started to tilt slightly forward, just a little lean, like it was tired of standing up straight. I noticed it, of course. I just hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. Between work and the crushing weight of existential dread, a crooked mailbox hadn’t exactly topped my priority list.
Then one morning, I stepped outside and it was fixed. Perfectly straight. Re-set in the ground with new concrete, edges cleaned up, even the numbers re-stuck in neat alignment. There was no note. No door knock. No mention.
I looked across the street, and there he was. Joel. Watering his stupidly green lawn like he hadn’t just crossed a major boundary. He came onto my property when I wasn't aware of it. He touched my personal item. Everyone in the neighbourhood would have assumed he did it to be kind but I knew better. He was showing me that no matter what I did, he would always be better.
It was when Joel started getting up at the ass crack of dawn on Sundays (my one day off) to mow his damn lawn that I finally lost it on him.
I’d been trying to sleep in, just once, and there he was, revving up that mower like it was a NASCAR engine, right outside my window. Who mows at 6:45 a.m.? A psychopath, that’s who. I flew out of my house in my pyjamas, not caring that my hair was a mess or that my clothes were wildly ill-fitting.
"SHUT THAT FUCKING THING OFF!"
He either couldn’t hear me or pretended not to. I wasn’t sure which, his back was to me, hunched over that god-awful mower like it was a beloved pet.
What I do know is that he practically jumped out of his skin when I smacked the back of his shoulder blade.
He spun around fast, eyes blazing, and then for just a second his gaze dropped, dragging down the length of me. I saw it. That quick flicker of surprise, maybe even interest. If it had come from any other man, I might’ve welcomed it.
Instead, my scowl deepened. I planted my hands on my hips, one bare foot tapping against the driveway. I must’ve looked like a lunatic.
"Why the fuck are you mowing your lawn this early?"
"It's Sunday."
"I'm aware."
"I’m busy during the week, and I like to relax on Saturdays. This is my only free day to mow."
"Joel, I don’t give a shit what day of the week it is. I care that it’s not even seven in the goddamn morning. On my one day off."
"Well, I-"
"I mean, for fuck’s sake, Miller. It’s common sense. You see anyone else out here mowing right now?"
He blinked at me. Slowly. Like he was either confused or buying time to come up with a really bad comeback. For a second, I even thought maybe he felt bad. Nope.
"I also don’t see anyone else screamin’ at the top of their lungs in some skimpy outfit either."
I looked down. Thin tank top, old sleep shorts. No bra. Awesome.I blinked. My mouth opened, something sharp, something devastating on the tip of my tongue but my brain short-circuited.
All I could think about was the breeze hitting my bare thighs and the smug look crawling across Joel Miller’s stupidly handsome, smug-as-hell face.
Skimpy outfit. Skimpy.I could feel my ears turning red.
“You’re a dick,” I muttered, but it came out weak. Even I wasn’t convinced.
Joel just raised his eyebrows, like he was waiting for something better. Something clever. Something worthy of the standoff we’d apparently just entered. I had nothing.
So I did the only thing I could think of: I flipped him the bird. A full, dramatic middle finger right between the eyes. Then I spun on my heel and marched back toward my house, bare foot slapping hard against the pavement.
I didn’t slam the door behind me, but only because I tripped over a rogue slipper on the way in. At least after that he stopped mowing Sunday mornings.
Now I watch him through the glass, smiling and laughing at something with Sarah. The two of them are close, peas in a pod.
He’s soft with her. Gentle. Patient. I see it when I go to check the mail or when we happen to pull into our driveways at the same time. They’re usually mid-laugh, Joel teasing her in that light, affectionate way dads do. She always has a snappy comeback ready, sharp, funny. She’s clever like that.
I’ve never once heard him yell at her. Never seen her storm out of the house screaming about how much she hates him. No slammed doors. No dramatic teenage meltdowns. Just peace. The neighbours confirm what I already know: Joel Miller is a great dad.
Maybe that’s why, on that Saturday night, when I knew Sarah was at her mom’s and he was alone, I went over with a plate of brownies. I’d never been this close to his house before. I couldn’t help but admire it. Everything about it was just as annoyingly perfect as the man himself.
The freshly lacquered front door, the manicured garden bed with not a single weed in sight. Even the damn porch light had a charming glow, like it had been curated for an Instagram ad. I knocked and shifted from foot to foot, nerves jangling.
When he opened the door, he was wearing a gray t-shirt and dark sweatpants. Also, he wasn’t wearing anything under them. I could tell. The light shifted. So did he. And there it was. He blinked at me, trying to place my face in the semi-darkness. Then his eyes widened slightly.
“What do you need?” he asked, eyeing the plate like it might explode.
We weren’t friends. Social calls weren’t part of our dynamic. This wasn’t normal. But then again, neither was what I said next.
“Miller,” I began, my voice much steadier than I expected, “Will you have sex with me?"