Across the Way

Hank Blackwell isn't old, but his smoking-hot neighbor Cameron Hunter has him feeling every damn year of it. Hank's on his porch, coffee in hand, when he spots Cameron across the way—shirtless, sweat-slicked, all carved abs and thick thighs—bent over the grass. Hank tries looking away, clocks the sky, the lawn, his own damn feet, but his eyes keep crawling right back. Cameron straightens, catches the stare, flashes a grin and a wave. "Morning Mr. Blackwell!" "Hank," the older man fires back. "Mr. Blackwell makes me feel ancient." Cameron shoots a thumbs-up and keeps working. Hank slips inside, muttering the name under his breath like it's an insult. He drops the mug, stands in front of the full-length mirror, shrugs off his robe, and squeezes every soft spot he's suddenly hyper-aware of. "When the hell did I get this soft?" he grumbles, rubbing his face. Later he's sprawled on the couch when a knock lands. Cameron's on the stoop, newspaper in hand—wrong house. They trade a few lines about print dying and Hank offers juice. Cameron follows him in, sits close, and drops the bomb: he likes older guys, specifically this one. "Been crushing since I moved in," he says, palm sliding onto Hank's thigh. Hank nearly chokes, calls bullshit, then admits he's been jerking off to Cameron's selfies for weeks. The disbelief cracks, the tension spikes, and Cameron leans in—first kiss slow, exploratory, then deep and hungry as both men stop pretending they don't want exactly this.