Just a Dream Away

The houses on Maple Lane were packed close, the kind of street where a neighbor’s bassline could sneak through your open window on still nights and feel personal. For the last eight months, Lena had turned every sound from next door into her own private soundtrack.

She was twenty-two, still grinding through call-center shifts—headset clamped on, same scripted “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience” looping like a broken record for eight straight hours. Her real life lived in the margins: stolen glances through the blinds when Marcus pulled his tour bus into the driveway each evening, the slow stretch he did after locking up, shoulders rolling like he was shaking off the whole day. Sometimes he’d sit on his porch steps in the sodium glow of the light, scrolling his phone, looking peaceful in a way that made her chest hurt.

Marcus was twenty-five, Black, about 5’9″, built compact and solid. He wore fitted white button-downs and dark jeans like the clothes had been waiting for him all day. Everything about him moved with quiet certainty—the way someone learns to carry themselves when they’ve turned hustle into a real business. Lena had built him larger than life in her mind until he felt like a secret she wasn’t even allowed to tell herself.

They’d barely spoken. A quick “hey” when their trash cans lined up at the curb. Once, when she and her housemate were running late for work, he’d given them a ride to work in the car—front seat, radio low, smelling like cedarwood and fresh clipper oil. She’d thanked him so many times he’d laughed, deep and easy, and said, “You good, shorty. Have a good day,” before melting back into traffic. She’d replayed that laugh for weeks.

She practiced full conversations in the shower. “Hey Marcus, crazy weather, huh?” Too basic. “I like the new wrap on your bus.” Safer, but still cowardice. The real sentence stayed caged behind her teeth: *I’ve been watching you for months and I think about you more than anyone should.*

Sunday night arrived soft and cool. Lena was curled on the couch in leggings and an oversized tee, half-watching some true-crime doc, when she heard the familiar hiss of his bus door. She edged to the window and peeked.

There he was—Marcus, standing beside the open door in a charcoal hoodie and sweats, phone in hand, staring up at the sky like the answers were written in the stars. He looked… solitary. Or maybe she was just seeing what she wanted to see.

Her pulse hammered so hard she tasted it in her throat.

She didn’t give herself time to overthink. She slid her feet into slides, took one trembling breath, and stepped outside.

“Marcus?”

He turned, surprise flickering before it softened into a slow smile. “Lena. What’s good?”

She crossed the invisible property line before her brain could stop her.

“I…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a really long time.”

He tilted his head, patient. No smirk, no rush. Just listening.

The rehearsed lines dissolved. She forced the truth out in a rush. “I like you. A lot. More than just neighbor a-lot. I see you every day and I think about you all the time. I know this is random and it’s late, but if I don’t say it now I might never.”

Two heartbeats of silence. Then he stepped closer, eyes locked on hers.

“You been carrying that a minute, huh?” His voice came low, warm, a little amused but gentle.

“Way too long,” she whispered.

He studied her like he was seeing her for the first time. Then he lifted a hand, slow, and brushed his thumb along her cheekbone.

“I thought you were just being nice,” he said. “Didn’t wanna assume.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “I’m terrible at nice.”

Another step. Their shoes nearly touched.

“You wanna come in?” she asked, voice barely there.

His gaze darkened. “Yeah. I do.”

Inside, her place smelled like vanilla candle and lavender detergent. The door clicked shut and his mouth crashed into hers—hungry, sure, like he’d been holding back just as long. They stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding layers like they burned. Hoodie. Tee. Jeans. Her bra hit the floor; his boxers followed.

He lifted her easily, hands firm under her thighs. She locked her legs around his waist and kissed him deeper, tasting salt and need. He laid her on the bed like she mattered, then came down over her—all warm brown skin and lean muscle. His mouth traced her throat, her collarbone, lower. When his tongue found her clit she arched so hard the headboard thudded the wall. He growled against her, “Let me hear you,” and sucked harder until she shattered, crying his name.

He didn’t pause. He slid inside her in one slow, deep thrust, stretching her open, filling her until her breath caught. They moved like they’d rehearsed it—rough, desperate, tender. Skin slapping. Nails raking down his back. His teeth on her shoulder. When he shifted the angle and ground against her clit with every roll of his hips, the pressure built too fast, too big.

It broke.

She screamed, body seizing, and squirted hard—wet heat rushing over him, soaking the sheets, dripping onto the cool tile below. Aftershocks made her clench around him again and again. Marcus groaned low, hips stuttering. “Fuck—Lena—” He buried himself deep and came hard, pulsing inside her, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise.

They collapsed, panting, slick, laughing softly in disbelief. He kissed her temple, soft now. “You good?”

She smiled, wrecked. “I think I flooded the bed.”

He chuckled against her throat. “We’ll deal with it.”

She closed her eyes, warm all the way through.

Then the alarm screamed.

Lena jolted upright—alone.

Dark room. Dry sheets. No cedarwood. No bruises blooming on her hips.

Just her phone glaring 5:45 a.m., another shift waiting.

She stared at the ceiling, face burning, a shaky laugh slipping out.

“Goddamn,” she whispered to the empty dark.

Outside, she heard the faint beep of his bus unlocking.

Lena pulled the blanket up, smile lingering even as embarrassment crept in. Tomorrow she’d see him again. Maybe she’d manage more than “hey.” Maybe she’d find the nerve for real.

For now, the dream was enough—wet sheets and all.