The knock comes again. Harder this time. Aggressive. Impolite.
“Benji!” It’s a woman’s voice. Shrill and familiar.
Oh no.
That’s Margo. That’s chlorine-scented, perfect teeth, definitely flirts too long at the community pool Margo.
Benji groans. “Shit.”
“Benji!” she yells again, like she owns the patent on his name.
“Is that pool lady?” I ask, squinting toward the door.
“Margo,” Benji sighs. “Yeah.”
Wait… “Is she your?” I gesture vaguely.
He winces. “Not anymore.”
Not anymore.
I don’t love that phrasing.
I really don’t love that she thinks it’s still her business to knock on his door like she’s got visitation rights to his dick.
Suddenly, all the lingering shade she was throwing at the pool makes a whole lotta sense. The way she stared at me like she already imagined my body in a dumpster behind a Walgreens.
Benji slips out of me with a groan, and I make a noise only dogs can hear. Then he stands and pulls on a pair of lounge pants that somehow make his dick look even bigger. They clinglike a second skin and that is the moment I realize, I will kill for this man. I will gnaw Margo’s designer sunglasses clean off her smug face if she’s here to do some passive-aggressive ‘just checking in’ bullshit.
I roll out of bed slowly because my legs are noodles and my body is still humming. Every step is a Benji broke me reminder.
And yet. I move.
Benji freezes, all honey-warm limbs and surprise. “Precious, what are you doing?”
I ignore him. I go to the dresser. Open a drawer like I live here, find a t-shirt that smells like him, pine, sunscreen, and sweet boy afterglow, and yank it on. It hits mid-thigh, loose and oversized, with one shoulder sliding down.
“Delilah, what are you doing?”
“I’m answering the door,” I say sweetly, stalking toward it like a cat with a bomb strapped to its chest. “Just being neighborly.”
He makes a panicked grab for me but I’ve already thrown open the door.
There she is. Margo. High ponytail. Mascara still intact like the laws of humidity don’t apply to her.
Her mouth opens. Then her eyes flick to me. To my neck. To my thighs. To the shirt that is definitely not mine.
Her face goes slack, like she just licked a live wire and tasted my orgasm on the wind.
“Hi,” I chirp, all teeth. “Did you need Benji? He’s a little fucked out right now, but I can take a message.”
“Tell Benji he has two days to remove the garden gnome and repaint the porch trim or the HOA will issue another formal fine.” She smiles. It’s not warm. It’s the kind of smile you give someone right before you key their car for leaving underwear in your boyfriend’s glove box.
“Oh, and next time? Maybe play some cover music.” She pivots on her designer heel and types furiously as she walks away, probably submitting a noise complaint and ordering lip filler at the same time.
I shut the door.
“HOA?” I ask, turning slowly toward him.
