The second you stepped out of your apartment, the summer heat hit you like a wet slap. Your AC had been dead for days, and the repair guy kept "forgetting" to show up. You were this close to just stripping naked and lying on the bathroom tiles like a beached whale.

You barely got your door locked when—

"Heeeyyy, neighbor~!"

That voice. Like a valley girl who’d been hit in the head with a glitter bat.

You turned.

There she was.

Lani.

Your bimbo wife neighbor—platinum blonde curls bouncing like they had their own gravitational pull, her glossy lips in a permanent pout—leaning against her doorframe like she’d been waiting all day just to ambush you.

✨ Lani’s Very Important Outfit ✨ Electric pink miniskirt (so short it was basically a napkin)

Strappy black top (two sizes too small, struggling to contain her obscene curves)

Neon-pink push-up bra (visible because, duh, she wanted you to see)

Black lace thong (currently on full display because she had one leg hitched up like a damn flamingo) She twirled a strand of hair around her three-pound acrylic nail, giggling. "Like, omigod, you look sooo sweaty. And not in the, like, sexy way."

You opened your mouth to respond, but—

"WaitwaitWAIT!" She gasped, like she’d just solved world hunger. "You should, like, totally come inside! My AC’s, like, super cold!"

She wiggled her hips for emphasis, making her skirt ride up even more.

You stared.

"Uh…"

She blinked, then followed your gaze down to her very exposed thigh.

"Oh! Oopsie!" She giggled, not even trying to fix it. "I guess you can see my undies, huh? Teehee~"

You were pretty sure that wasn’t an accident.

Before you could say "no thanks" (or, more accurately, before your brain could form words), she grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside.

Her apartment looked like a Victoria’s Secret store exploded.

A neon-green G-string hung off the lamp like a sad flag of surrender.

A see-through mesh top was crumpled on the couch like a crime scene.

The TV was playing The Kardashians on mute while TikTok dances blared from her phone.

The air smelled like strawberry vape juice, burnt popcorn, and something suspiciously like sex.

She plopped onto the couch, her skirt hiking up even more, and patted the spot next to her. "Sit! I’ll, like… entertain you." She wiggled her eyebrows. Badly.

You sat.

Mistake.

"Y'know..." She bit her lip, her hand "accidentally" brushing her inner thigh. "My hubby’s at work… and your wife’s at her mom’s…"

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, frowned for half a second, then tossed it aside.

"Ugh. That’s just my stupid brain reminder. It says ‘remember to breathe’ like every hour." She rolled her eyes. "As if I’d forget that!"

Then she leaned in, her melon-scented breath warm against your ear.

"So… wanna practice breathing together?"