Chapter 1: The New Neighborhood

The ad had made it sound like paradise.

"Safe locality. Peaceful neighbors. Ideal for couples."

The pictures were bright: sunlit lanes, trimmed hedges, families walking hand-in-hand. We were tired of the noise, of the constant clamor of city life. This was supposed to be a new chapter.

When we arrived, though, the air felt… heavy.

The street was eerily quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes with peace—this was a watching kind of quiet. Like the walls were waiting to breathe. Like someone was already looking.

She stepped out of the car first.

Tight jeans hugging her hips, a loose shirt tucked at the waist, her curves effortlessly seductive even when she wasn't trying. And she never did. That was just her. My wife had a body that turned heads—full hips, a narrow waist, and a softness that made her look both innocent and dangerous at once. I loved how she looked. But here, under these eyes… I wasn't so sure.

I climbed out with a box in hand. That's when I saw him.

Across the street—an old man slouched in a faded plastic chair, nothing but a thin vest barely clinging to his shoulders and sagging underwear. He was still. Too still. His gaze, low and unblinking, was fixed on her hips as she bent over to pick up a dropped bag.

There was no shame in his stare. Just hunger.

I stepped in his line of sight, glaring.

Nothing. He didn't even blink.

I turned back to her. She had noticed. Her jaw tightened. But she didn't say a word—just straightened up and walked inside, the sway of her hips slowing slightly, as if she wanted to make it less obvious.

Or maybe she knew it didn't matter anymore.

As we carried boxes in, the illusion unraveled. The house looked decent on the surface, but every step revealed something a little off—paint that peeled when touched, locks that clicked but didn't really lock, windows that wouldn't fully shut.

Outside, kids—barely in their teens—sat on the sidewalk with cigarettes in hand and filth in their mouths.

"Hey a**hole, get me one too!" one screamed to another, punching his friend's arm.

They were laughing, fighting, spitting.

And not a single adult in sight.

Two men passed by around noon. Mid-twenties, tank tops sticking to their sweaty torsos. They weren't talking. They were gazing.

At her.

She was adjusting the doormat at our entrance, the stretch of her leggings pressing against her thighs, shirt rising just slightly to reveal the small of her back.

I watched them watching her. They didn't look away.

She did glance at them—just once. Her eyes flicked toward theirs, caught the stare, and moved on. No confrontation. No expression. Just that practiced indifference women wear when they're used to being watched.

That was the worst part. She was used to it. But I wasn't used to her ignoring it.

I wanted to say something. Maybe I should've.

That evening, as the sun sank behind the dusty rooftops, we sat inside, eating takeout on the floor, still surrounded by unopened boxes. I kept watching the front window, half-expecting another figure to be peering in.

She leaned back, her chest rising under the soft cotton of her tee, legs folded comfortably, hair messy from the move. She looked like a woman in a magazine—unknowingly seductive, effortlessly magnetic.

And yet, something in her eyes felt distant.

"Do you feel it too?" I asked.

She looked at me, puzzled. "Feel what?"

"This place… it's different."

She was quiet for a second, then shrugged. "Maybe we just need to give it time."

But she didn't believe that. I could see it in the way she avoided my eyes. In the way she stayed close to me, but not with me.

That night, lying beside her in our barely-made bed, I kept my arm around her waist. Her skin was warm. Soft. Comforting.

But my mind kept going back to the old man's stare.

The way those men had looked at her. The fact that she didn't say a word. Something was off. Not just with this place. With her. With us.

Or maybe I was just overthinking it.

Maybe it was the stress of the move, the unfamiliar streets, the eyes that felt more invasive because everything was new.

She was right. We probably do need to give it some time. So I closed my eyes, pulled her a little closer, and told myself to let it go.

Just for tonight.

Chapter 2: The House Next Door

By morning, I had almost convinced myself I’d overreacted. The neighborhood couldn't be that bad, right? We’d probably just caught a few weird moments yesterday. Moving stress, unfamiliar faces — maybe it was clouding my judgment.

“Let’s visit the neighbors,” I said, pouring her tea. “Would be a nice gesture.”

She agreed with a small nod, tying her apron over a fitted cream t-shirt and a navy skirt that hugged her ass too naturally. Her style was simple, typical — soft tones, neatly tied hair, not a hint of makeup yet she radiated something magnetic without trying.

As she stepped ahead of me with the fruit basket in hand, the movements of her ass made me want to grab them but I looked away. This was not the time.

We rang the doorbell next door. After a few seconds and some rustling sounds from inside, the door creaked open. And there he was — an old man from, now in a stained shirt and sagging boxers, the smell of mildew and something stronger drifting out from behind him.

His smile stretched unnaturally as his eyes landed on my wife, pausing there, soaking her in with zero effort to hide it.

“We’re from next door,” I said, a little awkwardly, “Just wanted to say hello. We brought some fruit.”

“Come in, come in,” he said immediately, waving us inside with a little too much enthusiasm.

I glanced at her, unsure. She gave a polite, almost hesitant smile, and we stepped inside.

The house was a disaster — cluttered furniture, the lingering scent of something rotting in the air, walls stained from years of being ignored. My regret was instant.

We sat across from him in the small, dimly lit living room while he asked us strange, shallow questions and shared long-winded stories about people neither of us knew. I pretended to listen, but I was distracted. He wasn’t talking to me. Not really.

Every time she moved — adjusting her t-shirt, smoothing her skirt — his gaze followed, always slipping back to her legs, her chest, the curve of her ass when she shifted. He didn’t even blink when he stared. Just watched, as if enjoying every inch with the hunger of a man who no longer cared about hiding it.

She noticed it too. I could tell by the way her posture stiffened. But she said nothing. Maybe out of politeness. Or discomfort.

After nearly twenty minutes, I stood. “We should get going. Still settling in.”

The old man rose with us, moving slower, but with a strange anticipation on his face. “Ah. Before you go. Here, we have a custom. A parting hug for guests—makes good fortune stick around.”

I forced a smile and stepped forward. His embrace was quick, his arms surprisingly firm for someone his age, but I pulled back almost instantly. I turned toward the door, assuming she would follow right behind.

But instead, he stepped closer to her, his eyes half-lidded. “And from the lady of the house,” he murmured, voice lower now, “a proper one.”

She hesitated for just a second too long.

Then, softly, she stepped forward.

His arms wrapped around her slowly, his hands resting on her back, one of them pressing a little too low. His face leaned near her neck, the grab was too strong for her to even make a movement. She stood frozen, her arms half-raised, unsure of where to place them.

Then I saw it — the subtle flex of his hand, fingers pressed just above the curve of her rear, not quite touching indecently, but close. Too close. His cheek brushed against her hair, and for a second, he simply held her, breathing her in.

Her face was unreadable. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean in either.

I cleared my throat loudly.

The old man smiled as he released her, letting his hand trail off her waist just a fraction slower than necessary.

She was breathing heavily—hair soaked, face flushed. The smell of the old man lingered on her, uninviting and unforgettable.

“Lovely to meet you both,” he said, as if nothing strange had happened.

We stepped out in silence. Her hands adjusted her skirt. Mine curled into fists.

I didn’t say anything on the way back.

But something about that hug… How long he held her, the way his hand lingered, played again and again in my mind.

She hadn’t said a word.

And that silence was starting to feel louder than anything else.