The next few days passed in a haze of restless energy.
I saw Elena constantly—watering her garden in tiny shorts, jogging past the house in leggings that should have come with a warning label, waving from her driveway with that smile that made my chest tight. We exchanged small talk over the fence, lingering longer each time, but nothing more. No invitation inside. No repeat of the pool day.
I told myself it was fine. She was older, out of my league, probably just being friendly. But every night I replayed the sounds from her bedroom—the thumps, the moans, the panicked retreat of those two guys. And every night I ended up hard and frustrated, wondering what the hell kind of woman could literally scare men out of her bed.
Friday evening finally brought rain—a sudden summer storm that rolled in just after sunset, turning the air electric. I was in the kitchen grabbing a beer when I saw lights flicker next door. Elena's silhouette moved past her living room window, phone to her ear, pacing.
Minutes later there was a knock at our back door.
My mom was out with friends, Dad asleep in front of the TV. I opened it to find Elena on the porch, soaked from the dash across the yard. She wore an oversized rain jacket over yoga pants and a thin white tank that had gone completely see-through in the downpour. Her nipples were hard points against the fabric. Water dripped from her hair and eyelashes.
"Hi," she said, breathless. "Power's out at my place. Mind if I wait out the storm here? I hate being alone in the dark."
I stepped aside without thinking. "Yeah, of course. Come in."
She slipped past me, scent of rain and jasmine filling the kitchen. I grabbed a towel from the laundry room and handed it over. She dried her face and hair, then shrugged off the jacket. The tank clung to every curve—full breasts, tight waist, the flare of her hips. I tried not to stare and failed.
"Beer?" I asked.
"Please."
We ended up on the couch in the living room, storm raging outside, lightning flashing through the windows. Conversation started light—weather, neighborhood gossip—but the tension between us was thick enough to taste. Every time thunder rolled, she shifted closer. Her thigh brushed mine. Neither of us moved away.
At some point the talk turned personal.
"You're different, Alex," she said quietly, swirling her beer. "Most guys your age… they see the body first. You actually look at me."
Heat crawled up my neck. "Hard not to notice the body," I admitted. "But yeah. You're… more."
Her eyes softened. She set her bottle down and turned toward me. One hand lifted, fingertips tracing my jaw. "Careful. More can be dangerous."
I leaned in anyway.
The kiss started slow—testing, almost hesitant. Her lips were soft, warm, tasting faintly of salt and tequila from the other night. Then she sighed into my mouth and everything changed.
She moved like liquid, straddling my lap in one fluid motion. Hands in my hair. Tongue sliding against mine. Her breasts pressed to my chest, nipples hard through the damp fabric. I groaned, gripping her hips, feeling the heat of her through thin yoga pants as she rocked against me.
It was perfect.
Until the scream cut through the storm.
A real scream—high, terrified, coming from somewhere down the block. Then another. Car alarms started blaring. A deep, guttural roar followed, shaking the windows.
Elena froze.
Her body went rigid in my arms. For a split second her eyes glowed—not figuratively, but actually glowed with faint violet light.
"Shit," she whispered.
She was off me in an instant, moving faster than should've been possible. One moment on my lap, the next at the window peering through the rain.
"What is it?" I asked, heart pounding for a different reason now.
"Stay here," she ordered, voice sharp. "Lock the doors. Don't open them for anyone."
"Elena—"
But she was already gone—out the back door and into the storm before I could stop her.
I stood there stunned for maybe five seconds before instinct took over. I grabbed my phone, ran upstairs to my bedroom window that overlooked the street.
The rain made everything blurry, but I could see flashes of movement three blocks down, near the park. Purple lightning—actual lightning—crackled against the clouds, but lower, closer. Something huge moved between the trees—tall, hunched, wrong.
Then a figure streaked into view.
Black leather gleamed under streetlights. Skin-tight catsuit hugging impossible curves. Thigh-high boots. Long black hair whipping in the wind. A sleek domino mask covered the upper half of her face.
Thick Chick.
The name flashed through my mind from local news reports I'd half-ignored—urban legend vigilante, always at night, always gone before police arrived. I'd never believed the grainy videos were real.
But there she was.
She moved like a blur—super speed kicking in as she launched at the creature. It looked like a twisted mash-up of man and beast: eight feet tall, gray skin, claws, glowing red eyes. Some kind of escaped experiment? Demon? Didn't matter.
Thick Chick hit it like a missile.
One punch sent the thing flying into a tree, splintering the trunk. She was on it again before it recovered—flipping through the air, landing on its back, legs locking around its neck in a scissor hold that would've crushed a normal spine. Purple energy crackled around her fists as she rained blows. The monster roared, slashing at her, but she was too fast—dodging, weaving, striking.
Flight kicked in next.
She lifted off the ground, dragging the creature skyward by its throat. Thirty feet up, fifty. Then she spun and hurled it downward. It hit the park pavement with a crater-inducing crash.
One final strike—a glowing purple fist straight through its chest—and the thing dissolved into black smoke, screeching as it vanished.
The whole fight lasted less than two minutes.
Thick Chick landed lightly, chest heaving, scanning the area. Sirens wailed in the distance. She glanced toward our street—toward my window—and for a heartbeat I swore she looked right at me.
Then she shot into the sky, a streak of black and purple disappearing over the rooftops.
I stood there shaking.
Twenty minutes later, there was a soft knock at the back door.
I opened it to find Elena—hair wet, clothes different (black leggings and hoodie now), breathing hard like she'd been running.
"Sorry," she said, voice shaky. "I… heard the screams. Went to check. Some kind of animal attack, I think. It's gone now."
She stepped inside, dripping on the mat. Her eyes searched mine, worried.
"You okay?" she asked.
I couldn't speak at first. My brain was still processing the impossible.
"Yeah," I finally managed. "I'm fine."
She nodded, but didn't move to leave. Rain hammered the roof. Thunder rolled again.
We stood in the kitchen, inches apart, the air charged with everything unsaid.
Eventually she reached up, brushed a thumb across my lower lip like she was erasing the ghost of our kiss.
"This… whatever this is," she whispered, "it's complicated."
"I don't care," I said.
Her smile was sad and beautiful. "You will."
Then she was gone again—back into the storm, door closing softly behind her.
I went back to the window.
Ten minutes later, a shadow dropped silently into her backyard.
The hoodie came off first, revealing the glossy black catsuit underneath—torn in places from the fight, but still clinging to every lethal curve. The mask came next, tucked into a hidden compartment at her thigh. Hair tumbled free.
Elena.
She glanced up at my dark window one last time, expression unreadable, then slipped inside her house.
I didn't sleep that night either.
But now I knew the truth.
My neighbor wasn't just a super MILF.
She was Thick Chick.
And somehow, I was already part of her world.