Late Blooms - A Short Story

 Here’s your intro section for the blog post titled:

“Late Blooms: A Short Story”

This sets the stage before diving into the full story and ties in your other age gap posts for cross-linking.

---

Some things bloom late.

Desire. Healing. Love.

Especially when it comes to the one person you should probably walk away from.

But if you’re here, I’m guessing you already love a good age gap romance—where all the rules get thrown out the window the second he looks at her like that.

“Late Blooms” is an emotional, slow-burn short story about a woman rebuilding after heartbreak… and the older man who should’ve stayed off-limits.

Ready?

---

Late Blooms: A Short Story

Sabrina

I didn’t move here to find someone. I moved here to find myself.

New town. New start. New me.

I repeat those words as I balance my camera bag and a to-go lavender latte in one hand, knocking gently on the weathered front door of the farmhouse. The entire place smells like wildflowers and cedar, like summer forgot to leave.

And then he opens the door, Jack Hayes, the grumpy recluse I’ve been sent to charm for a magazine spread.

I’m twenty-eight, newly single, and pretending I totally have my life together.

Which is why I’m here—camera in hand, professionally unbothered—trying not to drool over the early-fifties man who just opened the door like I’m the inconvenience he was warned about.

He’s still hot in that you-shouldn’t-be kind of way. Grumpy, too. It’s rolling off him in waves and judging by the sour look on his face, he’s not exactly thrilled to see me.

Like the one he’s giving me now that says he doesn’t really want to do this. “You’re late.”

“I brought peace offerings,” I say, holding up the latte. “One for me. One for you.”

He stares at the drink like it’s poison, then mutters, “Fine. Just don’t spill anything on the hydrangeas.”

Charming.

I follow him through the back garden, trying to focus on the way the light hits the flowers and not the way his jeans fit. He’s got that low-simmer energy. Quiet. Controlled. The kind of man who doesn’t speak unless he means it.

The kind that makes you wonder what he sounds like when he loses control. Or maybe that’s just my hormones wishing but god this man is sin walking.

“Your property is beautiful,” I say, adjusting my lens. “It’s wild and kind of overgrown, but in that romantic, fairytale way.”

He hums. “Like a metaphor for you?”

I look up. “Excuse me?”

“Bold on the surface. A little messy underneath.”

I blink. “You don’t even know me.”

His eyes meet mine. “Don’t I?”

I try to ignore the comment then snap a few shots, lavender, ivy, the creaky old swing and try to ignore how aware I am of his eyes following my every move. I crouch to get a better angle, and that’s when I feel it. His presence behind me. Solid. Close.

I lift the camera again, pretending to focus on the way the light hits the side of the old swing. But really?

I just want to catch him.

Candid. Brooding. Hands shoved in his pockets like he’s already over it.

Click.

He shifts.

Click.

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

I raise the lens one more time, fully aware I’m pushing it now—aiming straight at him like I want a reaction.

He doesn’t disappoint.

“You keep pointing that thing at me,” he says, voice rough, “and I’m going to give you something worth remembering.”

I look up slowly, heart pounding.

He’s smirking. Just barely.

And I am in trouble.

Jack

I haven’t wanted anything in a long time.

Not like this.

She’s fire, wild curls, and a hundred bad ideas wrapped in stubborn charm. And I can’t stop watching her. The way she laughs at her own bad jokes. The way she tilts her head when she’s composing a shot. The way she looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m a broken ruin or a challenge worth climbing.

I’ve lived alone for years. Chose solitude on purpose—quiet, routine, nothing messy.

I came here for peace.

Not temptation with wide eyes and a mouth I can’t stop looking at.

She can’t be more than twenty-eight.

And I’m way too old to be standing here thinking about how kissable her lips looked when she smiled at me.

She’s dangerous and everything I shouldn’t let myself want.

And yet, here she is, camera in hand like a weapon, eyes sharp, mouth too pretty.

She raises the lens again, aiming it at me like she’s daring me to react. Fuck me—if she stays here much longer, I’m not sure I can trust myself.

“You keep pointing that thing at me,” I say, voice low, rough, “and I’m going to give you something worth remembering.”

She doesn’t lower it.

She smirks.

Challenge accepted.

…………

Sabrina

It happens fast and slow all at once.

One second, I’m snapping a photo. The next, my back is pressed against the trunk of an old tree, bark digging into my skin, his body even hotter in front of me.

His mouth crushes mine, all heat and frustration and finally.

I gasp, and he swallows it, one hand cupping the side of my jaw while the other grips my hip like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind.

I won’t.

His tongue teases mine, slow and deliberate, like he wants to memorize the way I taste.

I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers slipping into his hair as I press closer than I know I should.

But there’s no “should” anymore.

Only yes. Only now.

…………

Jack

I press her back against the tree trunk, one hand gripping her thigh, the other fisting her dress as she locks her legs around me like letting go isn’t an option.

Her dress hikes up.

My self-control gives out.

“Do you want me to stop?” I murmur, lips brushing her ear.

She leans into me, voice shaky and sure.

“Don’t you dare.”

…………

Sabrina

The bark digs into my back, but I don’t care. Not when his mouth is on my neck.

Not when his fingers slip under my dress, dragging across the inside of my thigh… and then he freezes.

“You’re not wearing anything,” he mutters, groaning into my neck like it physically hurts him.

His grip tightens. And then there’s no more hesitation.

His fingers slide between my thighs, gliding through the slick proof of how badly I want this—how badly I want him.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” he breathes against my neck.

His thumb circles my clit while two fingers slide inside me, slow and deep.

My hips jerk. My hands clutch at his shoulders.

He moves with purpose like he knows exactly what I need and has no interest in teasing.

Every stroke is rougher. Deeper. Hotter.

Until I’m panting into his mouth, desperate and dizzy and right on the edge of falling apart.

And when I do, when I come undone in his hands, crying out his name into the still afternoon air, he doesn’t stop. He buries his face in my neck as I fall apart in his arms, shaking, gasping, ruined in the best way.

Then he kisses me like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing.

Like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.

…………

Jack

I didn’t plan for this.

Didn’t plan for her.

But now that I’ve had her—tasted her—I can’t bring myself to let her go.

I want more.

More of her sharp tongue. Her soft skin. The way she looks at me like she wants to be ruined all over again.

This was never supposed to happen.

But one night won’t be enough.

Not for her.

Not for me.

…………

Sabrina

Later, we’re curled up on his porch under a threadbare blanket, the sky turning gold behind the trees.

I’m still breathless. Still aching for more.

I don’t mean to ask it, but the words slip out anyway.

“Was this a mistake?”

His fingers brush through my hair, slow and steady.

“Probably,” he says.

Then adds, softer, more sure:

“Doesn’t mean I regret it.”

The End

---

Love it or screaming into your pillow?

Tell me what you think in the comments!

And if you’ve got a favorite age gap book or story moment, drop it below—I never get tired of this trope.