The sunlight's just right in the late afternoon as I take my camera and head out onto the deck, knowing that whatever I tell myself about trying to take photos of the lake, I know what I'm really looking for. In the week since Willow told me a little more about Dan, I've taken… well, enough photos of him that if the cops stopped by they'll probably say I'm stalking my neighbor.

With every photo I find him more and more fascinating. He's working nearly all day, intense physical labor that obviously leaves him exhausted. The first time I paid attention to his food deliveries I thought that maybe he'd gotten two weeks worth of food… and he went through it in five days.

But in that time he put in enough effort for three men. He works hard for hours, muscles straining as he turns his land into a self sufficient garden, repairs his cabin, and more. It’s all by hand and all with old fashioned tools. Where he learned the skills I have no idea, but he’s impressive with the quality of work he does.

I look around the afternoon, snapping a photo of the lake before glancing towards Dan. Today’s the same, he only takes a day off once in a long while, and he's in his yard again, not 'working' in his normal sense of doing insane amounts of physical labor that most people use tools for, but instead just working out. I don't know why any man who feels the need to chop down a tree in the woods and then use a harness to drag body length pieces through the forest to his cabin would have any need to 'workout,' but he does.

This time it's stone lifting. Grabbing a rock that's shaped kind of like a two handled pot, he picks it up, his hands under the 'handles' as he curls it up to his chest, leaning back to adjust his hands before thrusting the stone up into the air. He holds it still for a moment before dropping it to the ground and bends down to repeat the whole process again. I have no idea how much the stone weighs, but each time he drops it the divot looks deep enough to hide my foot in.

I raise my camera to my eye as Dan bends down, today’s gray compression shirt rippling with power as he adjusts his grip and lifts the stone again. I focus quickly and snap three photos as he lifts the stone one more time, ignoring the racing pulse in my body as I see his biceps strain inside his sleeves and his abs outline themselves against the tight fabric. Biting my lip, I lower the camera in time to watch him drop the rock again and get ready to start all over.

What am I doing this for? It's not for inspiration, if I needed any inspiration of him I'd be able to find it in the hundreds of photos I've already taken over the past couple of days. I've got pictures of him running, him working, even a few of him taking a moment to recuperate when his screaming muscles finally say no more and he pitches onto his knees, his head hanging like a dog, sweat dripping into the mud that’s formed around his body. But one of the best, I think, was actually of him relaxing. Dan had just gone out on the lake in a rowboat, disappearing for most of the morning before he came back. When he did, his shirt was again clinging to his body but he didn't stop, his back pulling on the oars until the bow scraped against the sandy shore of the beach on his property. It was only then that he stopped, sitting there and watching the sun winking off the lake.

With any other man, they'd look accomplished. He'd rowed enough to tire out even his amazing body, and next to him was a cooler that I was pretty sure was full of his dinner. Still, as he looked out tears trickled down his face, and the anguish in his eyes made me want to weep with him. It lasted only a minute though, and then he was out of the boat, pulling it all the way onto the beach and tying it off before disappearing inside.

What motivates a man to put himself through so much pure hell? He's not training in any sport, there's no apparent reason for him to do what he does. Instead, Dan's turned himself into an athlete who can compare to anything any professional would envy, and does it in some pretty harsh conditions. I mean, when I want to put a little tone on my booty, I do some squats, not pull trees through the woods.

Every time I see Dan, the mystery deepens a little more. I watch him for another twenty minutes until even his titanic strength fails him and he lets the rock crash to the dirt for a final time. I know what'll happen later. He'll recover and put the rock away before getting out his hand roller and going over the earth again and again until all the scars are tamped down and his side yard is as pristine as if nothing had ever happened.

Turning away, I go inside and connect my camera to my computer, letting my system backup the files. Letting the electronics do their damn thing, I get my easel and set it up just the door, not because the light's better but because it feels… I don't know, weird to draw this one outside. I'm used to showing people a hint of my soul with every piece I do, but this one I'm not sure I’ll ever have the guts to show it to who I want to see it.

But I have to do it. I've never been struck by a hunger this deep to put my views on canvas, even if I don't think I could ever show this off. Then again, Picasso painted over a shit-ton of paintings in his lifetime, some of his best work too if the X-rays can be believed. So I guess I'm in decent company.

I start like I do with all my work, charcoal on canvas. I've got the lower body already done, and while it's been a long time since I've done a portrait, I think I've done a pretty good job on the proportions. The light pencil marks I made to get things right are nearly identical to what I fleshed out, the black cargo pants a little thicker than normal just because Dan's thighs are thicker as well.

Today I start on his head, ignoring the hormone inducing expanse of his upper body to focus on what I saw today. Starting with his neckline, I work up, getting the way his hairline on his scarred side is just a bit lopsided. His ears, his eyes… all of it seems to flow easily and quickly from my fingertips as I let my mind's eye take over. I don't even need to refer to the photos in the digital frame I've been using, it's just some extra light as I find his nose, that slight upturn at the end that makes him look like he's slightly aristocratic…

“What are you doing?”

I cry out, dropping my charcoal stub to the ground as I look up to see Dan standing on the deck. He's changed clothes, a high necked long sleeved shirt covering him all the way to his wrists, but the fabric can't hide the swell of the muscles underneath. He's so lean that even a layer of fabric on top just looks like normal skin almost, but right now I'm not noticing his chest or biceps or six pack.

His eyes are blazing, glaring at me in the light as I stammer for balance. “D… Dan. I didn't see you come up on the deck.”

“I asked what have you been doing,” he repeats, stepping inside. “For two weeks now you've been taking photos of me almost every day. I want to know why.”

“I… uh… well,” I stutter, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. “Look, I find inspiration in you. So you've helped me with some sketches, paintings. That's all.”

“Show me,” he rumbles, stepping inside further. He's close, just on the other side of the canvas and I can feel his charisma pulling to me, and my body's responding. My nipples start to tighten inside my t-shirt and I am so aware of my hips right now that I wish I could spread my legs just a little… to show him what he's been doing to me in my dreams and fantasies for a lot longer than I’m willing to admit.

“I don't normally show my work to anyone until it's finished,” I respond, swallowing to clear my dry throat. “I'm sorry.”

“I don't care,” he says, his eyes cutting to the side as he sees my digital photo frame start over. “You got a lot of shots there.”

Actually, that's only a small sample, I think, wondering what I'm supposed to do. Sure, I could throw a fit for him coming into my house without permission, there’s no stairs to ground level so he pulled some serious ninja shit to do what he did. But I think the only way I'm going to get him out of here is by calling the cops, and I don't want the cops involved in this.

Besides, I have been spying on Dan a lot. “Why do you want to see them?”

Dan stops, his fists clenching next to his thighs. “I know what everyone thinks. I'm a freak, a monster. Well, I can accept that, at least the fuckers leave me alone except when I go into town. Your grandmother left me alone too, just let me try to have my peace and quiet. But you… you….”

He stops, looking up as he gets himself under control. “Dan-”

“You haunt my fucking dreams,” he rasps, his eyes burning as he looks at me. “But I know I disgust you. I saw it in your eyes, but you keep prying at that scab on my soul. You keep digging at me, reminding me of what I am every time I see you with that goddamn camera. You couldn't even let me go out on the lake for a couple of hours!”

He's nearly in tears with his anger and shame, and I stop, my heart clenching. “Dan… oh Dan, I don't see you like that. I don't see you as a freak or a monster at all.”

“Yeah right,” Dan replies sullenly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Everyone in this town sees me that way. Except for maybe Dirk.”

“Dan… look,” I whisper, picking up my canvas and setting it in the doorway leading outside. The light catches it, and Dan stops, squatting as he looks it over.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks as his eyes stay riveted to the canvas. “This is my burned side.”

“I know. I did that on purpose.”

Dan growls, standing up and storming out onto my deck. “Are you trying to make fun of me, Chrissy? Just doing it in a way that the assholes in town haven't come up with yet?” he asks, his voice low and intense. “You drew me… you drew me like that!”

“I drew you as I see you,” I reply honestly, stepping closer to him. “Dan… what did you see when you saw that sketch? It's not done yet, but what did you see?”

“You drew me… you drew me like I was handsome,” he half yells, his eyes filling with anguish. “That's the face I saw when I was twenty four, not now! There's none of the ugliness, none of the scars!”

“The scars are there, Dan,” I whisper, stepping back and turning the picture again so that he can see it straight on. “Look. Right here, along your neck and curling up behind your ear. I did the research, you weren't wearing a Nomex hood, and that's why the heat was able to get your neck. But Dan, look closer… you're right, I did draw you as handsome. Because I think you're… I think you're so fucking handsome and sexy that it's really hard being your neighbor.”

Dan stops, his chest heaving as he stares in my eyes. In a flash he crosses the distance between us, pulling me to him before crushing my lips in a searing, intense kiss. His fingers tangle themselves in my hair for a moment before he shoves me away, his hand trembling. “Don't… don't,” he growls, turning away. “Just leave me the fuck alone! Let me have some fucking peace!”

He doesn't cross all the way to my back stairs, but vaults my railing, dropping the nearly fifteen feet to the grass below without a single concern. My heart is racing, my body on fire from our kiss as I try to rush to the railing, but before I can get there he's crossed the entire distance between our houses and slammed his door. In the nearly silent air I hear the click of his lock, and then the scream of pain and rage that comes from inside.

It chills me, even as my lips burn from his touch. But this isn't the time, we're both too emotional right now. Instead of following him I cross over to my canvas and put it back on my easel, studying it for a moment. I've always been able to pour my emotions out on the canvas, and right now the mix of sex, anger, arousal, and heartache for Dan is so vitriolic that it's all I can do to not cry myself as I start drawing again.

“Soon, Dan… when we can both talk straight, I'm going over there,” I tell myself as I sketch in his eyebrow. “I'm going over there, and we're going to talk… and I'm going to get my damn pie plate back.”