Chapter 2 The Man on the Porch

Maplewood Lane always smelled like fresh-cut grass and yesterday's gossip.

It was the kind of neighborhood where everyone knew your name-and your business. Where hedges were trimmed just right, the mailboxes stood in perfect rows, and smiles didn't always mean kindness. Jane Whitmore had lived there for nearly her entire life. She knew every picket fence, every swing on every porch, and every whisper shared over backyard fences.

Until he moved in.

It was a quiet Thursday morning when the moving truck arrived next door.

Jane had just stepped out onto her front porch with a mug of lukewarm coffee and the intention to mind her own business. But curiosity had other plans.

Her eyes caught sight of him.

The man stepping out of the truck wasn't like anyone Maplewood Lane had seen in a long time. Tall, lean but built strong, dark skin glistening under the soft mid-morning sun, and a quiet confidence in his stride. He wore a black T-shirt, jeans, and a faded Yankees cap. Nothing extraordinary. Yet he carried himself like someone who belonged anywhere, even in a place that might not want him.

Jane blinked. Once. Twice.

He glanced her way.

Their eyes met.

For just a second, it was like time tipped sideways.

She quickly looked down into her coffee, pretending to sip even though it was already cold. She wasn't gawking-at least, she didn't want to seem like she was. But the man next door was different. Not just because of his skin color-though in Maplewood, that was a conversation no one would say out loud-but because of the way her stomach fluttered the moment she saw him.

She hadn't felt that way in a long time.

Not since Brad.

Not since the broken engagement, the whispered pity from neighbors, and the way her mother always reminded her that thirty-two was "not too old to still try again."

This man? He was not what her mother had in mind.

And yet, here she was, watching him unload his life into the empty house next door like some curious teenager again.

---

By late afternoon, Jane had baked a batch of lemon cookies.

It wasn't intentional. Not at first. But she found herself measuring flour with a little too much care and choosing the lemons that were just right. When the cookies were cooling, she wrapped them in parchment and placed them on her favorite floral plate. The blue one. The one her grandmother gave her.

It was just a neighborly thing to do. Right?

Her heart didn't need to beat this fast.

She didn't need to wipe her palms three times on her jeans before walking next door.

And she definitely didn't need to rehearse what she'd say five times on the way to his porch.

But there she was.

Before she could knock, the door swung open.

He stood there-closer now. Eyes a rich brown. Warm. Cautious.

"Hi," Jane said, voice softer than she meant.

He raised an eyebrow slightly, then smiled. It was faint. But it was real. "Hey."

"I live next door. Thought I'd, um... welcome you." She held up the plate like a peace offering. "Cookies. I baked them myself."

He looked at the cookies, then back at her. She half expected him to say no. But he stepped forward and accepted the plate.

"That's kind of you," he said. "Thank you. I'm Damien."

"Jane," she replied. "Jane Whitmore."

He smiled, this time with something behind it. "Nice to meet you, Jane."

His voice was low and even, the kind of voice that made her want to ask what he did for a living or what kind of music he liked. Anything just to keep him talking.

"Do you-uh-need help unpacking?" she blurted.

He gave a short chuckle. "You don't have to do that."

"I know," she said quickly. "But I want to. I mean... it's either that or I go back to watching daytime television with my cat."

That earned a real laugh from him. "Okay. You're hired."

---

That afternoon turned into something warmer than she expected.

She helped unpack books, set up his kitchen, and even shared pizza on a blanket in his still-empty living room. He told her he'd just moved from Chicago, that he was a high school history teacher, and that he liked Nina Simone and classic vinyl. She told him about her job at the small-town library, her love for baking, and how she'd once dreamed of moving to New York but never made it past Atlanta.

It was easy.

Natural.

They laughed like old friends. They talked like new ones.

And every time their fingers brushed-over a box, a plate, a record-the air sparked just a little.

---

But later that night, when Jane returned home and stood alone in her kitchen, something heavy settled in her chest.

She thought about the way Mrs. Callahan across the street had stared from behind her curtains.

She thought about her father's voice, once loud and proud, saying years ago, "A girl like you has to be careful who she brings home."

She thought about Damien's smile, honest and open.

And she thought about how the world she lived in had a way of swallowing smiles like his.

This wasn't just a neighbor. And this wasn't just a welcome plate of cookies.

Something was happening. She could feel it in the quiet of her bones.

It wasn't love. Not yet.

But it was something close.

Maybe too close....