Good neighbors

Cameron baked the muffins this morning and figured hey, why not break the ice? She knocks, plate in hand, with that breezy new-neighbor smile. Her across-the-hall hottie opens the door shirt half buttoned, smells cinnamon right away, yet his eyes drop lower than polite conversation ever should. They zero in on the flip-flops, her unpainted toes still dusted with flour. She watches his throat bob, watches the polite grin twitch into something else, and suddenly the muffins feel more like props than an intro. He keeps talking about how "sweet" they look, but he doesn't reach for a single one.