He buried his wife eighteen months ago. I buried my inhibitions the night he knocked on my door, soaked from the storm, asking to borrow nothing but my mouth against his.

Grief made him quiet. Hunger made him reckless. And I was the neighbor who couldn't stop watching him mow his lawn shirtless, couldn't stop imagining what those broad, grief-worn hands would feel like gripping my hips instead of a coffee mug at six a.m.

Now I know.

Now I know what it's like to be pressed against my own kitchen counter while he growls my name like a confession. I know what it's like to be taken slow and deliberate one night, then f****d hard and fast against the shower wall the next morning like he's trying to purge every lonely year out of his body and into mine.

He says he's not ready for love. His body says otherwise every single time he comes back for more.

I told myself this was just sex - a widower and the woman next door, scratching an itch, nothing complicated. But complicated is what happens when he starts staying until sunrise. When he starts calling it "us." When I start craving him more than I crave my own dignity.

The whole street thinks he's still mourning behind those closed blinds.

They have no idea what's really happening in his bedroom - or how many times a night I say his name like a prayer.