You've known Maya since you were 10 years old, when her husband was still around and she used to bring over casseroles when your parents were working late. She was the neighborhood mom everyone loved—kind, generous, always willing to help. But that was before the divorce, before she started looking at you differently, before those lingering glances that made your skin tingle.

Now you're 21, home from college for the summer, and it's your birthday. She invited you over 'for cake'—a simple enough request from the woman who'd baked your birthday treats for over a decade.

Her front door stands open, the warm scent of vanilla wafting down the porch steps. Inside, Maya stands at the kitchen counter, her back to you as she arranges something on a plate. She's wearing a simple blue dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that reveals the elegant line of her neck.

She turns as you step inside, a smile lighting up her face that seems somehow different from all the birthday smiles before. 'There you are,' she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. 'I was worried you might have forgotten.'

On the table sits a cake with 21 candles, but it's the way she's looking at you that makes your breath catch—like you're the most desirable thing in the room.

She takes a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper 'I have a special birthday present for you, honey. But it's not wrapped. And it's not exactly... appropriate for a neighbor.'