A Perfect View for One

The first thing I noticed about the new apartment was the light—floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place feel like it floated above the city. The second thing I noticed was him.

I'd been hauling boxes all afternoon, sweat sticking my tank top to my back, when I caught movement across the narrow alley. Maybe thirty feet away, the neighboring building's windows lined up perfectly with mine. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw when he scratched it, close enough to watch his throat move when he swallowed beer straight from the bottle.

He was unpacking too, shirtless, his back muscles flexing as he lifted boxes. Dark hair, taller than average, maybe early thirties. When he turned around, I got a full view of his chest—defined but not gym-rat perfect, a trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his gray sweatpants. The kind of body that suggested he worked with his hands, or maybe just had really good genetics.

I should've looked away. Instead, I stood there holding a box of dishes, watching him move around his bedroom like I was hypnotized. His bed faced the window—my window—and something hot and shameful twisted in my stomach.

When he suddenly looked up, our eyes met across the space between buildings. My face burned. I dropped the box I'd been holding, ceramic clattering inside, and jerked the curtains closed so hard the rod nearly came down.

For three days, I kept them shut. Told myself it was the mature thing to do. The right thing. But every time I walked past those windows, I felt them watching me back—black rectangles that could hide anything, or reveal everything. At night, I lay awake imagining what I'd missed. Wondering if he ever looked over here, if he wondered about the woman across the way who'd stared like she wanted to devour him.

My days were filled with the mundane reality I was trying to escape. A promotion to junior art director at a mid-sized agency that sounded more glamorous than it was—mostly managing client complaints about font choices and arguing with printers. Friends whose lives were accelerating toward marriages and mortgages while mine had stalled after a two-year relationship dissolved into polite disinterest. Mark had been kind, predictable, and ultimately boring. Our sex life had become a scheduled maintenance task, as exciting as dental cleaning. I’d moved here, to this apartment with impossible windows, because I needed to feel something again. Even if that something was shame.

On the fourth evening, I poured myself a glass of wine. Just one, I told myself. Just enough to take the edge off the restless energy that had been building since I'd moved in. The city sprawled below, all twinkling lights and anonymous lives. I could see into dozens of windows from here, but I only cared about one.

His blinds were open. Light spilled warm and golden across his bedroom, and there he was—folding laundry this time, still shirtless, wearing those same gray sweatpants. My mouth went dry. He moved like someone comfortable in his skin, completely unaware of his audience.

I should close my blinds. The thought came and went like a whisper. Instead, I settled into the armchair I'd positioned by the window—close enough to see clearly, far enough back that I remained in shadow. The wine tasted like blackberries and bad decisions.

He disappeared for a moment, then returned with another beer. Twisted off the cap with his shirt still off, and Jesus, the way his bicep flexed made my thighs press together. I was wearing a silk robe over lingerie, the kind I'd bought during my last relationship and never wore. The fabric felt cool against my overheated skin.

When he looked up again, I didn't flinch. Held his gaze across the darkness while my pulse hammered in my throat. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his bottle in a toast. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth—not quite friendly, not quite mocking. Like we shared a secret.

My hand moved without permission, fingers trailing down my chest to where the robe parted. Not quite touching, just hinting. His eyes followed the movement. Darkened. He took a long pull from his beer, never breaking eye contact.

The game had begun.

The next night, I was ready.

I'd spent the day shopping—new lingerie in black lace, silk stockings that required a garter belt. Wine chilled in the fridge. Candles lit around my bedroom, casting everything in warm amber light. I'd positioned myself carefully in the window seat, one leg drawn up, robe falling open to reveal the lace barely covering anything important.

He appeared right on schedule. This time he wasn't pretending to do chores—just stood there in his open window, wearing black boxer briefs that left absolutely nothing to imagination. The man was built like sin and knew it. When he saw me, that same half-smile tugged at his mouth.

We didn't speak—couldn't, probably, even if we'd wanted to. But words weren't necessary. His hand moved to the waistband of his underwear, fingers playing with the elastic. A question in the arch of his eyebrow.

My breath caught. This was the moment to back out, to close my blinds and pretend none of this had happened. Instead, I let my robe fall completely open. The black lace left my breasts mostly exposed, the panties cut high on my hips. I ran one finger along the edge, tracing skin that felt electric.

His response was immediate—hand moving to stroke himself through the fabric, already growing hard. The sight of it made my stomach flip. I'd never done anything like this, never been this bold with a stranger. But the anonymity was intoxicating. He was a fantasy made flesh, and I was the star of his show.

I poured myself more wine, taking my time. Let him watch the way my throat moved when I swallowed. When I set the glass down, my hands weren't shaking anymore. They moved with purpose, sliding up my thighs to hook in the waistband of my panties.

He mirrored my movements, pushing down his boxers. His cock sprang free—thick and curved slightly upward, darker than the rest of his skin. He wrapped his hand around it with practiced ease, thumb sweeping over the head. I could see the shine of pre-cum even from here.

My panties joined his boxers on the floor. We sat there, thirty feet apart, touching ourselves while the city carried on below us. Every time our eyes met, it felt like being touched—electric and impossible. I learned his rhythm, matched it with my own fingers circling my clit. When he sped up, I followed. When he slowed, teasing himself, I did too.

The buildup was exquisite torture. I wanted to draw it out forever, this strange dance we'd created. But my body had other ideas—weeks of celibacy and hours of anticipation coiling tight in my belly. When I came, biting my lip to keep from crying out, he watched every second of it. His own orgasm followed quickly, come streaking across his stomach as his hips bucked into his fist.

After, we sat in our respective windows, catching our breath. He raised two fingers to his lips in a mock salute, then disappeared behind his blinds. I closed mine too, my whole body buzzing with wine and endorphins and the delicious wrongness of what we'd done.

I fell asleep with the taste of blackberries on my tongue and the image of his face when he came burned behind my eyelids.

The rules established themselves without discussion.

Every night at ten, like clockwork. Sometimes I'd perform for him—slow stripteases that left me wet and aching, touching myself in positions designed to give him the best view. Other nights he'd take charge, stroking himself while I watched, his free hand gesturing for me to spread wider, touch here, pinch there.

We never spoke, but communication happened in glances and gestures. A tilt of his head meant turn around. When he licked his lips, I knew he wanted to see my fingers inside myself. I'd learned his tells too—the way his jaw clenched when he was close, how his strokes became more deliberate when he was holding back.

During the days, I started noticing details about his life that made the fantasy feel more dangerous, more real. The stack of architecture books on his shelf, the drafting table visible in the corner of his living room. A framed black-and-white photograph of an older couple on a beach—his parents, maybe. He had routines: coffee at seven, a run at six, sometimes working late at his desk with a furrowed brow. Once, I saw him arguing on the phone, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The glimpse of ordinary stress made my chest tighten unexpectedly. He wasn’t just a body. He had a life that existed outside our ten o’clock ritual.

I found myself fabricating a life for him. Michael, I decided his name was. An architect who liked his whiskey neat and his music with a heavy bass line. Who maybe had his heart broken once and now preferred the safety of windows between him and anyone real. The fiction comforted me, even as I knew it was probably wrong.

The first complication came three weeks in. I’d had a terrible day—a client rejected six concepts, my boss made a passive-aggressive comment about my “distracted energy,” and I’d spilled coffee on my favorite blouse. All I wanted was the escape of ten o’clock.

I got ready with extra care, choosing a cobalt blue chemise that made my skin glow in the candlelight. But when I took my position, his window remained dark. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. A cold knot formed in my stomach. Had he gotten bored? Had something happened? The fantasy felt suddenly fragile, dependent on factors I couldn’t control.

At 10:20, his light flicked on. He wasn’t alone. A man, about his age, was with him, clapping him on the back. They were laughing, holding beers. My face flushed with a humiliation so acute it felt like nausea. He’d forgotten. Or chosen something else. I stood frozen, half-dressed in the window, utterly exposed to a stranger who wasn’t even looking.

I yanked the blinds closed so hard one of the slats cracked. That night, I didn’t sleep. The next day at work, I was a ghost, moving through meetings without hearing a word. The power dynamic I’d felt—the control of being watched, of performing—had been an illusion. He held all the cards; he could end this with a closed blind.

But at 9:55 the following evening, I was back at my post, wearing red. When he appeared, alone, his expression was different. Sober. He held up his hands, a clear gesture of apology. Then he pointed to his friend, mimed sleeping, and shook his head. He crashed here, it wasn’t my choice. The explanation, though silent, was unmistakable.

I nodded slowly, the cold knot loosening. But something had shifted. The game had a flaw: it required perfect synchronicity in two separate lives. It could be broken by a visiting friend, a late meeting, a headache.

Tonight, I had something different planned, a reassertion of my own agency.

I'd spent the afternoon at a sex shop in the village, cheeks burning as I selected items from my mental list. Now they waited on my bed like props in a play I'd written just for us. When I took my position in the window, his eyes went immediately to the shopping bags.

I made him wait while I poured my wine, letting anticipation build. When I finally pulled out the first toy—a simple vibrator, purple and curved—his hand moved instinctively to his cock. But I shook my head. Wait.

Slowly, I unbuttoned my blouse. No lingerie tonight, just skin and the promise of what was to come. The fabric slipped from my shoulders, followed by my bra. I was already wet, had been since I'd started getting ready. This felt different than our usual dance—bolder, more deliberate. Like I was claiming something.

The vibrator hummed to life, and his pupils dilated. I traced it along my collarbone, down between my breasts, taking my time. When I finally touched it to my nipple, my back arched involuntarily. The sensation shot straight to my clit, already throbbing with need.

He was fully hard now, hands clenched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself. Good. I wanted him to suffer a little, the way I'd suffered imagining this all day.

I spread my legs wider, giving him an unobstructed view as I dragged the vibrator down my stomach. Teased it along my inner thighs, never quite touching where we both wanted. His mouth was open slightly, breathing hard. I could see the muscles in his arms flexing, dying to touch himself.

When I finally pressed the vibrator against my clit, I couldn't hold back the moan. It was louder than intended, carrying across the space between us. His head snapped toward my window, and for the first time, I saw him break. His hand flew to his cock, stroking hard and fast like he couldn't help himself.

The sight of him losing control pushed me over the edge. I came with the vibrator pressed hard against me, hips bucking as waves of pleasure crashed through my body. He followed seconds later, come shooting onto his window in long streams.

After, I held up the shopping bag and raised my eyebrows. Tomorrow? His nod was immediate, eager.

As I closed my blinds, I realized I didn't even know his name. Somehow, that still made it better, even after the scare. The not-knowing was the point. Wasn’t it?

"You're glowing," my coworker Jen said the next day, peering at me over her coffee cup. "New apartment agreeing with you?"

I thought of the way he'd looked at me the night before—like I was water and he was dying of thirst. "Something like that."

"Meet anyone interesting? There's this guy who works at the coffee place on fifth—"

"No one special," I lied, feeling the phantom weight of his gaze on my skin. "Just enjoying my own company for once."

Jen laughed. "Well, whatever you're doing, keep it up. You look like you're getting laid properly for the first time in years."

If only she knew. I was getting laid by a ghost, a stranger who knew my body better than any of my exes. Who'd seen me come apart more times in two weeks than my last boyfriend had in six months. The anonymity was freeing—I could be anyone, do anything, without worrying about morning-after awkwardness or relationship expectations. But the incident with his friend had planted a seed of doubt. This wasn’t a sealed world. Real life, with its schedules and friendships and obligations, could intrude at any moment.

That night, I was ready when he appeared. Had even set up a chair by my window, angled just so. When I gestured for him to sit, he complied immediately. Good boy.

I took my time unwrapping the night's entertainment—a glass dildo that caught the light, its surface rippled for extra sensation. His eyes went wide. I'd never used toys with an audience before, but something about his reaction emboldened me. Made me feel powerful in a way I'd never experienced.

The glass was cold against my heated skin, and I let him see every shiver. Every gasp. When I finally slid it inside myself, we both moaned. It was obscene, this connection we'd forged through glass and distance and mutual desperation.

"Fuck yourself with it," I whispered, knowing he couldn't hear but needing to say it anyway. "Pretend it's me."

His hand moved faster on his cock, matching the rhythm I set. We were past pretending this was just voyeurism now—this was mutual masturbation, shared pleasure across an impossible divide. I could see it in his face, the way he watched me like I was the only thing in his universe.

When I added the vibrator, pressing it against my clit while the dildo filled me, I thought I might pass out from the intensity. My orgasm crashed over me like a tsunami, leaving me shaking and breathless. He came with my name on his lips—I couldn't hear it, but I could read it, could see the shape of it in the way his mouth moved.

After, I held up a piece of paper with my phone number. Raised my eyebrows in question.

He shook his head. Held up his own sign: NOT YET.

I understood, or told myself I did. This thing we'd created existed in a specific space, at a specific time. Adding reality to it might break the spell. Still, I went to bed that night with a hollow feeling beneath my ribs. NOT YET meant there was a possibility, but it also meant a continued suspension in this limbo. I was starting to crave more than just his eyes.

The change came gradually, and then all at once.

First, it was little things—him appearing at his window earlier, staying later. Then the addition of new elements: candles on his side, matching mine. Music that I couldn't hear but could see him moving to, slow and sensual. He started touching himself differently, like he was learning my preferences. Slower when he could tell I wanted to draw it out. Rough when I seemed to need it hard and fast.

I found myself dressing for him even during the day, choosing outfits that would look good discarded on my bedroom floor. Started sleeping naked, just in case. Bought new toys weekly, each one a promise of future pleasure.

Then I saw the first sign of her. A Friday night, and he wasn’t at his window. I waited, sipping my wine, trying to quell the panic. Then I saw a shadow move—a feminine silhouette passing through his living room. Not close enough to see details, just a shape. A woman’s shape. She was there for an hour before leaving. He didn’t come to the window that night at all.

The jealousy was a physical shock, a cramp in my diaphragm. I told myself I had no right. We had no claims. But the next night, when he appeared alone, I was cold. Distant. I performed my usual routine, but it felt mechanical. He noticed. His gestures became more pleading, his expression confused. When I finished and closed my blinds without our usual lingering look, I felt a petty, vicious satisfaction.

But it was the night he brought her into the bedroom that everything truly shattered.

I'd taken my position at ten sharp, wine poured, wearing the red lingerie set he'd seemed to like best, determined to reclaim his attention. But when his blinds opened, he wasn't alone. She was beautiful—tall, curvy, with dark hair that cascaded down her back. They were laughing about something, and when she kissed him, I felt it like a punch to the chest.

This was the deal, I reminded myself. No strings. No promises. We were strangers who fucked with our eyes, nothing more. But watching his hands on her skin, seeing the way he touched someone else with the same hunger he'd shown me, made me want to break something.

I should have closed my blinds. Instead, I poured more wine and settled in to watch.

They moved like people who knew each other's bodies well—familiar but still hungry. When she pulled his shirt off, I saw the differences: new scars, muscles more defined than they'd been weeks ago. He'd been working out. For her? For me? Did it matter?

She was aggressive, pushing him back on the bed and straddling his lap. I could see her mouth moving—talking dirty, probably, based on the way his hands clenched on her hips. When she ground against him, his head fell back in pleasure.

I found my hand moving to my own body, almost against my will. The jealousy was sharp, but underneath it something else burned—curiosity, maybe. Or the perverse thrill of seeing him through someone else's eyes. It was the ultimate voyeurism, watching the fantasy I’d helped create be enacted with another woman. It hollowed me out and filled me with fire at the same time.

She stripped slowly, revealing lingerie that made mine look virginal. Black leather and mesh, leaving nothing to imagination. When she turned around, I saw she had a tattoo low on her back—wings, spreading across her shoulder blades. She moved like she owned the world.

He watched her like she was water and he was dying of thirst. The same way he used to look at me.

I was touching myself now, matching their rhythm. It felt different—dirtier, somehow. Like I was stealing something that didn't belong to me. When she finally took him in her mouth, I had to bite my lip to keep quiet. The sounds he made were familiar but new in this context—deeper, needier.

They fucked like animals, hard and fast and completely uninhibited. She rode him like she was claiming him, breasts bouncing, hair flying. His hands were everywhere—on her tits, her ass, tangled in her hair. I could see the muscles in his thighs flexing as he thrust up into her, could see the way her back arched when she came.

I came with them, fingers working frantically as wave after wave of pleasure mixed with pain crashed through me. It was the most intense orgasm I'd had since this started, and I hated myself for it.

After, they lay tangled together, whispering things I couldn't read. When she left an hour later, he came to the window. Looked directly at mine—even though my lights were off, my blinds cracked just enough to see through—and held my gaze for a long moment. His expression was unreadable. Not apologetic, not triumphant. Just… present.

I thought about not showing up the next night. About ending this before it could hurt more. But when ten o'clock came, I was there in my window, wearing white lace and carrying a bottle of wine. White for surrender, or maybe for a new beginning.

He appeared alone. Looked at me for a long time before holding up a sign: I'M SORRY.

I shook my head. Held up my own: DON'T BE.

Because this was the truth—we were strangers. He owed me nothing, just as I owed him nothing. But something had changed nevertheless. The innocent thrill of anonymous exhibitionism had evolved into something more complex. Desire mixed with possession. Pleasure tangled with pain. I had wanted him to be a fantasy, but fantasies don’t have other women in leather lingerie. Fantasies don’t make you feel like you’re bleeding internally.

I set down my wine and began to undress, taking my time. Let him see everything he'd been missing. When I was naked, I pressed myself against the cool glass, breasts flattened, hands spread. Offering myself up completely, but this time it felt like a challenge. Here I am. This is what you’re playing with.

He matched my position across the way—chest to glass, hand on his cock, eyes locked on mine. We moved together like dancers who'd performed this routine a thousand times, bringing each other to the edge and back again.

When I finally came, screaming his name even though he couldn't hear it, I saw something shift in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Or acceptance of what we'd become: not just voyeurs, but accomplices in something that was starting to feel dangerously real.

After, he held up a new sign: TOMORROW?

I nodded. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—for as long as this strange, painful magic held.

The ending came sooner than expected, and not in the way I’d imagined.

I was late getting home—work dinner that ran long, too much wine and tedious conversation. By the time I stumbled through my door, it was nearly midnight. I rushed to the window, heart hammering with the need to see him, to explain my absence.

His blinds were closed.

I waited until one in the morning, but they never opened. The next night, same thing. And the next. A week passed, then two. His windows remained stubbornly dark, reflecting only my own desperate face.

I told myself he'd moved. Found someone real to replace our fantasy—maybe the woman with the wings. Got tired of the game. But late at night, I still pressed my face to the glass, searching for any sign of life across the way. The silence was a physical presence. The apartment felt empty without our ritual. I stopped sleeping naked, stopped buying wine, stopped touching myself entirely. It was like losing a limb—something vital gone without warning or explanation. The fantasy had become a need, and now I was in withdrawal.

I threw myself into work, into drinks with Jen, into anything that would fill the hours between sunset and ten o’clock. Nothing worked. The city outside my beautiful windows felt hollow.

Then, exactly three weeks after he'd disappeared, I found the envelope.

It was wedged in my door, plain white, no writing on the outside. Inside: a single key and a note in handwriting I'd never seen but somehow recognized.

Sarah – 4B. Ten o’clock. Come as you are. – M

My hands shook as I turned the key over and over. 4B was in his building—I could see it from my window, had watched him disappear behind that door countless times. He knew my name. He was inviting me into the real world, extending our fantasy into something tangible. The note was terrifying in its simplicity. Come as you are. Was that an invitation, or a test?

I spent hours getting ready, then wiped off all the makeup. I put on the black lingerie, then took it off and put on a simple cotton bra and panties. Then I put the lingerie back on. I was a bundle of raw nerves, not anticipation. This wasn’t a fantasy anymore. This was walking into a stranger’s apartment based on a key slipped under a door. This was how horror movies started. This was also the only thing I’d wanted for weeks.

At 9:55, I stood outside 4B. Raised my hand to knock, then lowered it again. This was the moment of choice—fantasy made flesh, or the safety of memory. Through the door, I could hear music playing. Something slow and bluesy, not the sensual electronica I’d expected. It felt more vulnerable.

I knocked.

He opened the door wearing jeans and a worn gray t-shirt, not the sweatpants. He was barefoot. He looked exactly as he had in my window but somehow softer. More human. Up close, I could see details the distance had hidden—the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, a chipped tooth on his lower smile, the exact shade of his eyes (hazel, not brown, with flecks of green and gold).

“You came,” he said. His voice was lower than I’d imagined, with a slight rasp.

“You left,” I said, the words out before I could stop them, accusation and hurt mingling.

He winced, running a hand through his hair—the exact gesture I’d seen from afar. “Contract job out of state. No service where I was. I… I should have found a way to tell you. I’m sorry.”

The apology for his disappearance, not for the other woman. It hung between us.

“I don't even know your name,” I said, though the note had said ‘M.’

“Michael. Yours?”

“You already know that.”

“Sarah,” he said, testing it out like he was learning the shape of me. It sounded different in his real voice. “Would you like to come in, Sarah?”

I stepped across the threshold into his real world. His apartment was smaller than mine, warmer. Books everywhere. A guitar in the corner. The drafting table was littered with sketches. It was messier, more lived-in than the curated stage I’d watched. Candles flickered, but so did the light from a laptop screen on the coffee table.

“I was afraid you wouldn't come,” he said, closing the door behind us.

“I was afraid you’d be someone else,” I admitted. “That the guy in the window was a character.”

“He was. I am.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking suddenly young and uncertain. “This is… awkward.”

The confession broke the tension. A laugh bubbled out of me, nervous and real. “Yeah. It really is.”

He smiled, and it reached his eyes this time. “Can I get you a drink? Wine? Whiskey?”

“Whiskey. Neat.”

His eyebrows rose. “Lucky guess.”

While he poured, I looked around. There, on the bookshelf, was the photo of the older couple. Next to it, a picture of him with the woman—the one with the wings—her arm around his neck, both of them laughing. The jealousy was a quick, sharp sting.

He followed my gaze. “My sister, Chloe,” he said, handing me a glass. “The tattoo artist. She was visiting a few weeks back. She’s the one who finally told me I was an idiot for not just talking to you.”

The relief was so profound it felt like vertigo. Sister. The intricate story of betrayal I’d woven unraveled in an instant, leaving me exposed and foolish.

“Oh,” was all I could manage.

“Yeah.” He took a sip of his whiskey, watching me. “This is the part where the fantasy usually falls apart, isn’t it? Reality is messy. I leave my socks on the floor. I snore when I’m really tired. I get stressed about work and disappear for three weeks without a word.”

I took a step closer, drawn by his honesty. “I’m messy too. I get jealous over strangers in windows. I sometimes cry after I come. I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“Neither do I,” he murmured.

The space between us vanished. His mouth found mine, but it wasn’t the crash I’d imagined. It was tentative. A question. His lips were softer than they looked. He tasted of whiskey and mint. When his hands came up to cup my face, they were warm and slightly rough. Real.

We broke apart, breathing heavily. The charge was still there, the electric current from all those nights, but it was grounded now in the smell of his laundry detergent, in the sound of his breath, in the nervous way his thumb stroked my cheek.

“I want both,” I whispered against his lips. “The fantasy we created and the reality of your skin on mine. Even the messy parts.”

“The fantasy might be better,” he warned, but his eyes were shining.

“Let’s find out.”

He led me to his bedroom—the same bed, the same view of my dark window across the way. It was surreal, like stepping into a dream I’d had a hundred times. He peeled off my dress with a reverence that made me shiver, his fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp of my bra. It wasn’t the smooth performance of our window games. It was clumsier. More human.

When I was naked, he just looked at me, his gaze traveling over my body like he was memorizing it in a new dimension. “You’re even more beautiful up close,” he said, his voice thick.

“So are you.”

He undressed, and I saw the body I knew so well, now within reach. The scar on his hip from a childhood bike accident. The dusting of freckles across his shoulders. He was real.

We fell onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and nervous laughter. His mouth on my neck, my hands in his hair. When he kissed his way down my stomach, I trembled.

“I used to imagine this,” he murmured against my inner thigh. “What you’d taste like, how you’d sound when I made you come with my mouth instead of your fingers.”

“Show me,” I breathed.

He did. And it was different. It was slower, less frantic than in my fantasies. He learned me in real time, responding to my gasps and flinches, adjusting his pressure. It was collaborative, not performative. When I came, crying out, it was from a deep, building wave of sensation, not the frantic peak of exhibitionism.

He crawled back up, kissing me deeply. I reached for the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. The box was there, unopened. A fresh start.

When he slid inside me, we both went still. Eye to eye, chest to chest, completely joined for the first time. No glass, no distance, no pretending. Just Michael and Sarah, two strangers who’d built a bridge of desire and were now tentatively crossing it.

“Okay?” he whispered, his forehead against mine.

“More than okay.”

He moved, and it was like coming home to a place I’d never been. Familiar but new. Intimate in a way our window games could never be. I could see everything: the concentration in his eyes, the love bite on his neck from last week’s shave, the way his breath hitched when I tightened around him. It was better than the fantasy. It was real.

After, we lay tangled in his sheets, sweaty and spent. The city lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling.

“Stay,” he said, his voice sleepy. “Stay the night. We can figure out tomorrow… tomorrow.”

I thought about my empty apartment across the way. The perfect view for one. I didn’t want to be one anymore.

“Yes,” I said, curling into his side. “To tonight.”

As I drifted off, listening to the steady beat of his heart, I knew the show was over. The careful performances, the scheduled desire, the safety of distance—all of it. What came next would be messier, more complicated, full of miscommunications and real-life obligations and the terrifying risk of being known.

But his arm was solid around me, his breath warm on my neck. Outside, the city hummed on, full of windows and secrets and stories just beginning. Ours was one of them, no longer confined to a rectangle of glass, but spilling out, messy and real and ours to write.