Chapter 1
Chapter 1
The elevator doors closed behind me with a metallic sigh that echoed my own exhaustion. I fumbled with my keys, my fingers stiff from ten hours of typing, clicking, performing the endless digital dance that paid my bills but drained something essential from me.
Inside my apartment, I dropped my briefcase with less care than I should have—the leather would scuff against the floor, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. The pumps came off next, kicked toward the coat closet with a satisfying thud. Flat shoes, they’d promised at the store. Comfortable for all-day wear. Liars.
My feet met the cold tile floor of the entryway, and I actually gasped at the sensation. The chill traveled up through my aching arches, my swollen ankles, bringing the first moment of genuine physical relief I’d felt since morning. I stood there for a moment, wiggling my toes, feeling almost ridiculously grateful for this small mercy.
The apartment was dark. I should turn on lights. I should pour that glass of red wine waiting in the kitchen. I should microwave something approximating dinner. Instead, I walked to the window—my nightly ritual, though I couldn’t have explained why.
Outside, the street was quiet. November had stolen the daylight, as it did every year, leaving me to travel to and from work in darkness. Morning darkness and evening darkness, my world bookended by absence of light. Across the narrow street, the identical apartment building stood like a mirror, showing me the life I was living reflected back in brick and glass.
Most windows were already dark. It was nearly nine o’clock—late, even for the city. The people across the way had already retreated into their evening routines, their televisions, their partners, their children, their lives that seemed so much fuller than mine felt in that moment.
But one window glowed with warm light. Third floor, directly across from mine.
And there was someone at the window.
A young man. Even from this distance, I could see he was young—early twenties at most, maybe even younger. A full decade separated us, maybe more. He wore grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, and his chest was bare, muscled in that casual way of youth when the body maintains itself without much effort.
He was looking at me.
Our eyes met across the space between buildings, and neither of us looked away. I should have. Any reasonable person would have stepped back, drawn the curtains, restored the privacy that city living pretends to offer. But I stood there, and so did he.
My heart began to beat faster. I could feel it in my throat, in my wrists, in the space behind my eyes. The exhaustion that had weighed me down moments before began to lift, replaced by something else. Something I hadn’t felt in so long I almost didn’t recognize it.
Excitement. Possibility. Power.
Without planning it, without deciding, my hands moved to my blazer. The navy blue one I wore every Tuesday, part of my professional armor. I undid the single button and shrugged it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind me.
He didn’t move. Just watched.
My fingers found the buttons of my white blouse. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Each one released with a small pop, exposing the lace of my bra beneath. The blouse joined the blazer on the floor.
I was breathing harder now. What was I doing? Standing at my window in my bra, performing for a stranger, a boy really, someone I’d never met and likely never would.
But his eyes on me felt like warmth. Like sun on skin after a long winter. His gaze traveled over my shoulders, my collarbone, the curves of my breasts pressed up by the underwire. I felt beautiful under that gaze. Not tired. Not old. Not invisible.
I felt seen.
His hand moved, gesturing. At first, I couldn’t understand what he wanted, but then it became clear. He wanted more. He was asking me—no, telling me—to remove my skirt.
The rational part of my brain screamed at me to stop. To close the curtains. To remember who I was—a professional woman, a manager, someone people respected. What was I doing, exposing myself like this?
But my hands were already moving to the zipper at my hip. The pencil skirt slid down my legs, pooling at my feet. I stepped out of it, standing now in just my matching black bra and panties, my pale skin almost luminous in the lamplight of my apartment.
Across the street, I saw him react. His hand moved to the front of his sweatpants, adjusting himself. Even from here, I could see the outline of his arousal, pressing against the grey fabric.
A flush of heat spread through my body, concentrating between my legs. This was insane. This was dangerous. This was the most alive I’d felt in months.
He was touching himself now, his hand moving slowly over his erection through his pants. His eyes never left me. I watched him watching me, my own hand drifting down my stomach toward the ache building inside me.
But then his other hand came up, palm out. Stop.
I froze, my hand hovering just above my panties.
He shook his head, firmly. His hand continued moving on himself, but his eyes commanded me to wait. To watch. To not touch myself.
The frustration was immediate and overwhelming. I needed relief. My body was crying out for it. But something in his gaze held me frozen, obedient.
His movements quickened. His head fell back slightly, then forward again, making sure I was still watching. I was. I couldn’t look away. His body tensed, his hand moving faster, and then his mouth opened in what I imagined was a groan I couldn’t hear through the glass and distance.
He came, his body shuddering, his free hand braced against the window frame.
And I stood there, untouched, burning with need.
He looked at me again, his chest heaving. Then he reached for something—a tablet of some kind. He typed something and held it up to the window.
The letters were large enough for me to read: “NO”
He turned the tablet, typed again: “WAIT”
Another turn: “COMING”
One more: “TOMORROW”
My breath caught in my throat. Tomorrow. He was coming here tomorrow.
Before I could react, before I could even process what this meant, he reached up and drew his curtains closed.
I stood at my window for a long time after that, half-naked, aching, alone. But I wasn’t tired anymore. The exhaustion that had aged my bones had evaporated, replaced by an electric anticipation.
Tomorrow.
I would wait.
I picked up my discarded clothes and finally poured that glass of wine, my hands trembling slightly. As I brought the glass to my lips, I caught my reflection in the darkened television screen—eyes bright, cheeks flushed, alive in a way I’d forgotten was possible.
Whatever was happening, whatever I’d just agreed to without speaking a word, there was no going back now.
Tomorrow, he was coming.
And I would be waiting.
