What She Showed Me

*** Author's Note:

I'm not sure yet if this will become a regular series. I started it on a business trip a few months back, scribbling ideas without a clear sense of direction or destination. It's drawn heavily from my own voyeuristic impulses and messy personal experiences, which felt raw and intriguing enough to share. I intend to continue, but I can't promise when--or how often--new updates will appear.

***

I live modest, unremarkable life, but In a world where people my age are still crammed into apartments with too many roommates, I have a house and that means something. It's quiet, tucked just far enough from the main streets that foot traffic is sparse, the kind of place where a man can disappear without really disappearing.

The pandemic didn't change much for me at first. I was already used to solitude. Work from home. Groceries delivered. No real need to go anywhere, to talk to anyone. But when the world started to heal, when people stepped back outside and picked up their lives where they left off, I didn't.

Somewhere along the way, isolation had stopped being something temporary and started feeling like a habit I didn't know how to break.

I told myself I didn't need much. I had my house, my work, a steady routine. But when the only voices you hear are filtered through speakers or headphones, you start craving something else.

I didn't interact much with the world, but I watched it.

From my front window, I could see the street, the people who passed, caught up in their own little lives. Strangers who had no idea I existed, no idea they were being observed.

It started as nothing. Just idle curiosity.

A man in a suit, checking his watch every few seconds, always walking the same hurried pace like time was out to get him. A mother pushing a stroller, eyes tired, movements practiced. An older couple holding hands, their steps slow but in sync, like a well-worn habit.

And then there were the couples.

The young ones, the ones still drunk on each other, hands greedy, lips meeting in fleeting, stolen moments. They were oblivious, lost in the heat of something new, something that burned fast and bright.

And the older ones--steady, settled into their affections. A hand on a lower back. A knowing glance. A familiarity that came from years of touch.

I watched all of them. Lived vicariously through the gestures, the intimacy, the easy way they occupied space together.

But watching only deepened the absence in my own life.

I told myself it was harmless. Just a way to pass the time. But some nights, when the world outside quieted and I was left with nothing but my own thoughts, I wondered if I had become something else.

A voyeur.

I knew all my neighbors' habits, their schedules, the ebb and flow of their daily lives, even though I never spoke to them. Never so much as waved.

The young couple in the house across from me always fought around 8 PM--low, hushed arguments on the porch, just quiet enough to keep up appearances but loud enough for anyone paying attention to catch the tension in their voices. The old man two houses down walked his dog every morning at precisely 6:30, rain or shine. The woman in the blue house had a lover who only came by when her husband was out of town.

They lived their lives out in the open, never considering that someone might be watching.

And I watched.

The neighbor's daughter fascinated me the most recently.

She was in college now, barely more than a girl, but she carried herself like someone who had learned the ways of the world early. I never saw her leave through the front door, never with books or a backpack. She slipped out at odd hours, moving fast, always getting into cars that didn't belong to anyone in this neighborhood.

Older men. Different ones each time. Never the same car, never the same face, but all with that same quiet confidence, that same understanding of what they were there for.

She'd be gone for hours, sometimes all night, and she always returned the same way--early in the morning, just before the world woke up, before her parents could notice she hadn't been in bed.

One of those mornings, she got dropped off right in front of my house.

I hadn't expected it. I'd just been sitting at my window, sipping my coffee, waiting for the city to stir. And then the headlights cut through the dark, the sleek car rolling to a stop, her small frame slipping out of the passenger side like she'd done it a hundred times before.

But she didn't get out right away.

Instead, she leaned back in, her body halfway inside the car, her head disappearing into the driver's lap.

I didn't have a perfect view. The angle wasn't right, and the interior of the car was too shadowed. But I saw enough.

The way the man's head tilted back, his mouth parting on a slow, exhaled breath. The subtle movement of her shoulders. The way his hand curled lazily in her hair.

It didn't last long. A few moments, a final favor before she slipped away for the night.

And then she pulled back, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, stepping out of the car like nothing had happened.

She didn't even glance around. No fear of being caught, no hesitation. Just smoothed down her skirt, adjusted her jacket, and shut the door behind her.

The car rolled away.

She walked back toward her house, slipping through the side yard, vanishing before the front porch lights ever flicked on.

This had become my life.

Not living. Not participating. Just watching.

A witness to those fleeting moments of passion and desire, those small, stolen intimacies people thought were private but were never really hidden.

I watched them all and sometimes, I matched their rhythm with my own hands.

Other times, I just watched. Let the tension build inside.

Then there was her.

She sparked something different in me. A new interest. A new desire.

I memorized her body without meaning to. The sway of her dark hair, catching the light as she moved. The boldness in her eyes, sharp and knowing, like she saw the world for exactly what it was and didn't flinch. The deep, dark hue she tinted her lips--sensual, deliberate.

The pulse beating in her throat, just beneath the delicate skin. The rise and fall of her breasts, slow and steady, hypnotic in their rhythm. The soft swell of her hips, the way her skirt barely covered the smooth expanse of her thighs.

And those leggings.

The way they clung to her legs just above the knee, molding to her like a second skin, framing the shape of her body in a way that made it impossible not to notice.

Twice a day, every day, she walked by.

And every time, I watched.

I would wait.

Like clockwork, I knew when she would appear, knew the exact moment she'd step into view.

Twice a day, without fail.

And in between, when the hours stretched long and the silence pressed in, I imagined.

I imagined those thighs wrapped around me, warm and firm, holding me in place. The way her skin would feel against mine, smooth, hot, undeniable.

I imagined her lips on my body, tinted dark, parted just enough to breathe me in. The soft drag of them down my neck, my chest, wrapped tight around me.

I imagined the weight of her, the press of her hips, the way her breath would quicken just before giving in.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

I didn't understand where she went. It didn't really matter.

It was always the same time each day--midday, broad daylight.

Too long for a casual lunch, not long enough for a work shift. And especially not dressed like that.

The short skirts. The tight leggings. The tops that clung to her in all the right places. She wasn't dressed for an office. She wasn't dressed for a classroom.

She was dressed to be seen.

It gnawed at me, that in-between space where she disappeared. Where did she go? Who was she meeting? What did she do in those missing hours before she walked back the way she came, looking just a little different, like something had shifted?

Her hair, sometimes mussed. Her lips, sometimes smudged.

Some days, she walked faster, her steps sharp, urgent. Other days, slower, like she had nothing pressing left to do.

I told myself it wasn't my business.

But I couldn't stop wondering. It was an excuse to wait for her... to watch her.

Sometimes at night, the window caught my own reflection. A flicker of myself layered over her walking body. It made me feel like a ghost--watching life through glass, never touching it, never being touched.

Then one day, it rained.

Rain here was rare. Heavy rain? Almost unheard of. But that day, it came down hard, the kind of downpour that made the streets blur and turned the world into a gray, wet haze.

I didn't expect her to show.

But there she was.

Her umbrella did little to shield her from the storm. Water dripped from the edges, running down her arms, soaking into the fabric of her clothes. Her short skirt clung to her thighs, darkened by the rain, molded to every curve. And her shirt--thin, useless against the water--turned sheer, revealing the deep red of her bra beneath, straps cutting over her shoulders like a promise.

Damn, the things I wished I could do.

She didn't rush. Didn't seem bothered by the rain, didn't try to escape it. Just kept walking, her pace steady, the downpour making her all the more mesmerizing.

Something in me snapped.

Before I could overthink it, before the hesitation could creep in and stop me, I moved to the door, cracked it open, and called out.

"You can wait inside if you want."

She stopped.

For the first time, she really stopped. Not a passing glance, not a flicker of acknowledgment as she walked by. She turned, met my gaze through the rain, her dark eyes sharp, considering.

Then she tilted her umbrella slightly, exposing more of her face, and stepped toward me.

She stepped inside, shaking off the rain, her soaked clothes clinging to her body in a way that made it impossible not to look. Impossible not to want.

I shut the door behind her, sealing us off from the storm.

She ran a hand through her wet hair, strands sticking to her cheek. "Didn't think you were the type to invite strangers in."

I leaned against the counter, watching her. "Didn't think you were the type to accept."

Her lips tinted dark, still teasing. "Guess we both like surprises."

She moved slowly, peeling off her wet jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like she was staking a claim on my space. Her shirt was soaked through, practically useless, the red of her bra glowing against her skin. She didn't seem to mind. Or maybe she wanted me to see.

She scanned the room, eyes sharp, taking everything in. The quiet. The order. The fact that there was no sign of anyone else ever being here.

"You always home?" she asked, like she already knew the answer.

I exhaled a small laugh. "Yeah. Mostly."

She hummed, intrigued now. "Why?"

I could've given her the easy answer. That I worked from home. That I got comfortable. But something in her gaze told me she wasn't interested in bullshit.

"I just... stopped going out," I admitted. "After a while, it didn't seem worth the effort."

She tilted her head slightly, eyes still searching, still putting the pieces together. Then her lips curved just a little. "So you watch instead."

She wasn't asking. She was stating.

I didn't move, didn't flinch. Just held her gaze. "Maybe."

Something flickered in her expression--not judgment, not disgust. Curiosity.

"Must be nice," she said, stepping closer. "Seeing everything. Never being seen."

The heat in my chest tightened. I should've been embarrassed. Should've felt caught. But the way she was looking at me, the way she was circling the moment, slow and deliberate, told me she wasn't just curious.

She was interested.

She leaned against the counter across from me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her, smell the rain still clinging to her skin.

Then, her voice lower now--calculated.

"What if I wanted to watch?"

She was serious.

That was the part that shook me the most. It wasn't teasing, wasn't just some offhand comment meant to stir the air between us. She meant it.

It had been a long time since I'd spoken to someone in person. Longer since I let someone see me--really see me. Not through a screen, not at a distance, but right here, breathing the same air, sharing the same space.

And she was taking up space.

She pulled her wet shirt over her head, slow and unhurried, the soaked fabric peeling from her skin. Her red bra was all that was left, straps slipping just slightly, the swell of her breasts rising and falling with every breath.

She didn't look away. Didn't flinch. Just sat down across from me, legs slightly parted, confidence rolling off her in waves.

"We can keep it simple," she said.

Her voice was smooth, steady, like this was nothing. Like it was just another offer, another transaction in a life full of unspoken arrangements.

"We can watch each other."

The words sent a slow, burning heat down my spine.

Because I'd spent so long watching. Hidden behind glass, behind walls, behind the safety of distance. But now?

Now I was the one being watched.

And fuck if I didn't want to give her something to see.

I took off my shirt first. The air felt cooler against my skin, my body tense under her gaze.

Then my pants.

I stood there, bare except for the weight of her eyes on me.

She watched, lips slightly parted, dark eyes trailing over me like she was taking her time memorizing every inch. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached behind her back, fingers finding the straps of her bra. A small motion, deliberate.

The straps slid down her shoulders, slow, teasing, before she let the fabric slip free, falling to the floor between us.

She didn't rush. Didn't flinch. Just sat there, the curve of her breasts rising and falling with her breath, completely unashamed.

Then, Her legs spread--slowly, purposefully--her skirt still on, barely covering the heat between her thighs. One hand moved, disappearing beneath the fabric, her breath hitching just slightly as her fingers found their place.

She wasn't asking permission. She wasn't hesitating.

She wanted to be watched.

And I wanted to watch.

We matched each other's pace.

Hard and firm in my hands, tension coiling through every inch of me as I watched her. As she watched me.

Her fingers moved with slow, deliberate strokes beneath her skirt, the subtle rise and fall of her chest betraying how deep she was sinking into it. The soft hitch of her breath, the parting of her lips--she was lost in it, lost in the moment we were sharing, the quiet, unspoken understanding that this was exactly what we both needed.

I was intoxicated.

By her. By the scent of rain clinging to her skin, mixing with something warmer, something heady. By the way her thighs shifted, spreading just a little wider, her movements growing bolder.

My grip tightened, matching her rhythm, my breath coming heavier as the space between us disappeared--not physically, but in every other way that mattered.

I had spent so long watching from a distance. But this?

This was real.

And fuck, I didn't want it to stop.

I finished first.

Of course I did.

It had been too long, the tension too thick, the sight of her too much. My breath caught, muscles going tight as the heat built to something unstoppable. Then release--hot, sudden, ropes of white spilling onto the floor between us, stark against the dark wood.

She gasped.

Not in shock, not in disgust--but something else. Something charged.

Her pace quickened, fingers working faster, breath coming in short, uneven pants. Her thighs trembled, her body tensing, chasing the same edge I had just fallen over.

And then she broke.

A soft, choked sound escaped her lips as her back arched, pleasure rolling through her in waves. Her fingers slowed, riding it out, her body shuddering as she came undone right in front of me.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

The rain still pounded against the windows, the air between us thick with heat, with something unspoken.

Then she let out a breath--slow, satisfied--and lifted her gaze to meet mine.

"Guess I put on a good show," she murmured.

And fuck if I didn't already want more.

The rain hadn't stopped, but it had let up a little. A softer patter against the windows, no longer the all-consuming downpour that had driven her inside.

She moved quickly, grabbing her soaked shirt, slipping it over her head like nothing had just happened.

"I'm gonna be late," she said, almost casual, almost like this was normal.

"By the way my name is Kai" she said as she walked out the door.

No hesitation, no second glance. Just the click of my door shutting behind her, leaving me sitting there, still catching my breath, still staring at the empty space where she had just been.

What the fuck was that?

My mind didn't know what to process first.

That she had wanted it? That she had known I watched her and still offered herself up like that--like a gift, like a challenge?

That I had done it? That I had let her see me, let her witness something raw and unfiltered, let myself be exposed after all this time spent hiding behind walls and glass?

That she had left so easily, like it hadn't meant anything?

The room was quiet again, but I couldn't stop staring at the hallway mirror. My reflection sat slouched on the couch--pants still around my thighs, skin flushed.

I sat there for a long time, listening to the rain, my body still humming from the aftershocks of what had just happened.

***

The days passed.

She didn't come back. Not right away.

And so I slipped back into my voyeuristic view of the world.

The young couple across the street fought as usual--loud, sharp words thrown between them, a cycle I had come to recognize. Tension, distance, resentment crackling in the air between them.

But passion always won out.

That night, their argument spilled into something else, something primal.

Through their open window, they put on a brilliant display--skin against skin, mouths clashing with the same intensity they had used to spit insults just hours before.

I watched as hands gripped, as bodies arched and pressed together, as their raw need eclipsed whatever had fueled their fight. The way they took each other--desperate, unforgiving, like neither of them wanted to be the first to surrender.

I couldn't look away.

It was hot. It was messy.

Her back arched, fingers tangled in the sheets, her mouth open in a silent moan as their bodies crashed together. The rhythm was rough, erratic--pure need, no softness, no patience. Just raw, desperate movement.

His hands gripped her hips tight, holding her in place as he drove into her, hard enough to make the headboard slam against the wall. It wasn't about love, wasn't about tenderness--it was about winning. About taking. About releasing all the tension built between them, all the frustration and anger and desire that had nowhere else to go.

She clung to him, nails digging into his back, her body meeting his thrusts with just as much urgency. Their breathing was ragged, their bodies slick with sweat, every movement fueled by something beyond control.

It was a battle.

And fuck, I envied them.

The freedom of it. The heat. The way they could take and take and take without hesitation.

I watched until the last tremors of their release shook through them, until they collapsed together in a mess of tangled limbs and exhausted sighs.

Then I sat there, in my quiet, empty house, pulse still pounding in my ears.

And all I could think about was her.

The way she had looked at me that night. The way she had wanted to be watched.

The way she had left me craving more.

One day, Kai knocked on my door.

I hadn't expected it. Hadn't expected her to come back at all, if I was being honest. That night in the rain felt like some fever dream, something that burned bright and fast before vanishing into the haze of my usual routine.

But there she was.

I opened the door, finding her standing there, dry this time, her dark eyes still holding that same sharp curiosity.

I should have asked why she was here. Should have pretended to be surprised. But I just stepped back, wordless, inviting her in.

She walked past me, casual, like she had done it a hundred times before. Like she already belonged here.

I shut the door behind her.

Kai turned, studying me, arms crossed over her chest. "So..." A small smirk played on her lips. "You like to watch."

I exhaled a quiet laugh. "I think we established that."

She tilted her head slightly. "But do you *need* to watch?"

That made something tighten low in my stomach.

It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't disgust. It was pure, genuine curiosity.

Like she was trying to understand me.

I leaned against the counter, mirroring her stance. "What's the difference?"

She stepped closer, just a fraction. "One's a choice. The other's a compulsion."

I let that settle between us for a moment, watching the way she held herself--calm, unreadable, like she was waiting for me to say something real instead of just playing along.

I swallowed. "I don't know."

Her lips twitched, like she appreciated the honesty. "Hmm."

Silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Then she uncrossed her arms, fingers trailing lightly over the hem of her skirt. "Do you want to find out?"

Kai reached into her pocket and pulled out a blindfold.

Black, silky, simple.

She let it dangle from her fingers, watching me with a look that made my skin prickle with heat. Amused. Challenging. Like she already knew exactly what I would say before I even had the chance to say it.

"Let's test something," she said, stepping closer.

I didn't move. Couldn't.

Her voice was smooth, teasing, but there was something else underneath. Something deliberate.

"You like to watch," she murmured, dragging the blindfold across her palm, slow, deliberate. "But what happens if you *can't*?"

My breath felt thick in my throat.

She wanted to turn the tables. To strip away the one thing I had relied on for so long--sight, control, the distance of watching.

She wanted me to feel instead.

I swallowed hard. "And what do *you* get out of this?"

Kai smirked, stepping even closer. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of her body, smell the faint trace of perfume beneath the lingering scent of rain.

She lifted the blindfold between us, her voice dropping lower.

"I want to watch *you* for a change."

She blindfolded me.

The fabric slid over my eyes, smooth, cool against my skin, and then--

Darkness.

The world I had always relied on was gone, stripped away in an instant. No more watching, no more seeing.

My other senses sharpened.

I could hear everything.

The soft shuffle of clothing--fabric slipping against skin, the quiet rustle of movement. The slow, steady intake of her breath, controlled, measured, like she was keeping herself in check.

I could smell her, too. Something warm and faintly sweet, that mix of rain and skin and something deeper, something uniquely her.

The air between us shifted, charged, thick with unspoken tension.

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into my thighs. "What are you doing?"

Kai's voice came from just in front of me, smooth, teasing. Close.

"Watching."

Her breath ghosted near my cheek, and I swore I could feel the weight of her gaze dragging over me, drinking in every reaction, every twitch of my fingers, every sharp inhale.

I had spent so long controlling the view, setting the distance, keeping myself in the role of observer.

Now, I was the one on display.

And fuck-- it was intoxicating.

I moved my hands to my pants.

If she wanted a show, I wasn't going to deny her.

Sitting in the darkness, guided only by sound, by scent, by the heat in the air between us, I let my fingers work the button, the zipper, easing down the fabric with slow, deliberate movements.

I felt her reaction more than I heard it.

A subtle change in her breath. The pause of movement, like she was frozen for just a second, taking in the sight she had asked for.

I leaned back, exhaling through my nose, letting my body settle into it. If I couldn't see her, I could at least imagine.

And my mind drifted back to that night in the rain.

The way she had sat across from me, baring herself without hesitation. The way her thighs had parted, skirt still on, fingers moving in slow, teasing strokes. The way she had watched me, really watched me, drinking in every reaction like it fed her.

I let my hand wrap around myself, matching that memory, matching that feeling.

A soft exhale from her.

I could tell she was still there, still watching, completely silent except for the occasional shift, the rustle of fabric as she adjusted her position, as she got comfortable.

She wanted this.

She wanted to see me like this.

And fuck--knowing that made it even better.

I could hear her shift.

A subtle movement--knees adjusting, fabric sliding, a quiet intake of breath. She wasn't just watching anymore.

She was matching me.

Her rhythm fell in sync with mine, soft, deliberate movements that I couldn't see, but I could feel in the air, in the tension stretching between us.

The blindfold heightened everything. Every sound, every breath, every slight tremor in her voice when she finally let out a quiet, shaky sigh.

She was touching herself.

I could picture it.

Her thighs slowly parting, fingers teasing, her body following the same pace as mine. The way she had looked that night in the rain, skirt barely covering anything, her hand disappearing beneath the fabric, eyes locked onto me as she brought herself closer, inch by inch.

I groaned, my grip tightening, my body aching for something more than just memory, more than just imagination.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, the heat building, my body completely exposed to her in a way that should have made me self-conscious.

But it didn't.

Suddenly, I felt something new.

Warmth.

Wet.

The brush of teeth--just the faintest graze against my skin, enough to send a sharp pulse of heat straight through me.

I sucked in a breath, my body tensing on instinct. The blindfold left me in the dark, my senses heightened, my mind scrambling to keep up.

She had moved. Closer.

Much closer.

The warmth of her breath ghosted over me, teasing, testing. A deliberate pause, like she was waiting for my reaction, like she wanted to know if I'd stop her.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

A slow exhale escaped me, my fingers twitching at my sides, resisting the urge to reach for her, to pull her closer, to see what she was doing instead of just feeling it.

But that was the game, wasn't it?

I had spent so long watching.

Now, I had to feel.

And fuck, did I feel everything.

She took me in her mouth.

I couldn't see, but I could feel --the heat of her lips wrapping around me, the slick, wet warmth that sent a sharp pulse of pleasure up my spine.

Her hair brushed against my skin, the soft weight of her head moving, slow at first, testing, teasing. My breath caught, my fingers twitching at my sides, my body tightening under the pressure of not knowing, of only being able to experience.

Instinct took over.

My hands moved to her, fingers threading through her hair, guiding her, setting a pace. She let me--let me hold her, let me control the rhythm, her hands resting lightly against my thighs as she followed my lead.

I groaned, my grip tightening just a little as she hollowed her cheeks, the sensation sending a deep, shuddering exhale through me.

She wasn't just doing this.

She was taking her time, learning how I reacted, how I moved, how I tensed beneath her.

I had spent so long watching, so long controlling the distance, keeping everything on my terms.

But now?

I was completely at her mercy.

fuck.

Her hands caressed my thighs, soft, teasing, sending jolts of heat through my skin. Each slow stroke of her fingers made it impossible to stay still, impossible not to react.

Her scent filled my lungs--warm, intoxicating, something sweet with the faintest trace of rain still clinging to her. It wrapped around me, just like the heat of her mouth, the pull of her lips as she worked me deeper.

I could feel everything.

The way her tongue traced along me, the way she relaxed, the subtle shift as she let me push further, let me feel the tight, hot resistance of her throat as she took me in.

My fingers tightened in her hair, not pulling, just gripping--something to hold onto, something to keep me grounded as she worked.

She knew what she was doing.

The slow, calculated pace, the way she let me feel the stretch of her lips, the hollow of her cheeks. The brief pause at the deepest point, the faint squeeze of her throat before she pulled back with an exhale that sent a shudder down my spine.

I couldn't see.

I could only feel.

And fuck --I felt everything.

Then, all at once, the sensation was gone.

The warmth of her mouth, the moistness of her lips, the teasing pressure of her hands on my thighs-- vanished.

I sucked in a breath, my body still wound tight, aching, desperate.

I heard her move--soft footsteps, the subtle rustle of fabric as she slipped back across the room, settling into place.

Back where she was before.

An observer once more.

I clenched my fists, my pulse still pounding, every nerve in my body screaming for more. The blindfold still held me in darkness, still left me vulnerable, stripped of everything except sensation.

I swallowed hard, exhaling through my nose, trying to steady myself.

"... You're cruel," I muttered, my voice rough, breathless.

Kai laughed, low and amused, completely unbothered by what she had just done.

"Maybe."

Her voice was smooth, even. Like she hadn't just left me. Like she wasn't enjoying this.

I shifted, my skin still burning, my body still waiting for more. "Why'd you stop?"

A pause. Then--

"I wanted to see how you'd react."

I exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "You like watching that much?"

She hummed, thoughtful. "I like control."

Her words sent a fresh wave of heat through me.

She had flipped everything. Made me feel what it was like to be watched, to be played with, to be left on edge, completely at her mercy.

And now I had to sit there, blindfolded, knowing she was still watching.

Knowing she wasn't done with me yet.

I resumed.

I had no choice. My body was still thrumming, still wound tight from the way she had pushed me to the edge, then left me there, aching, desperate.

I gripped myself, my strokes quick, rough, chasing the pleasure she had denied me. The thrill of this new game--this power shift, this intoxicating loss of control --was too much. I couldn't hold back.

I finished fast, a sharp exhale leaving my lips as the tension finally broke, heat spilling across my skin and into my hands. The relief was instant, but my mind was still tangled.

I heard her move.

Soft, deliberate footsteps crossing the room.

Then warmth.

Her lips. Her tongue.

I sucked in a breath as she cleaned me with her mouth, slow and deliberate, like she was claiming every last drop of my release. Not a word spoken, no hesitation--just her finishing what she started in a way that sent another shiver of heat rolling down my spine.

Then-- nothing.

Footsteps.

A door.

I sat there, chest still rising and falling, blindfolded and alone.

I reached up, fingers fumbling as I pulled the fabric away, blinking into the dim light of my empty living room.

She was gone, and in the mirror, I see myself--spent, exposed, alone.

Again.

What the fuck was that?

The second time she had left me speechless.

The second time she had come into my space and then disappeared like it was nothing.

I ran a hand over my face, still trying to process what the hell just happened.

***

Kai kept to her routine. Same time every day--she'd leave, disappear into whatever life she lived beyond my windows, and then return, like nothing had changed. Like we hadn't shared breath and sweat and secrets in the quiet of my house.

But now, sometimes, she stopped on the way back.

Not always. Not predictably.

She'd slip inside without much of a word, drop her bag, and settle beside me at the window. No touching--not really. Not each other.

We'd sit in silence, lost in the lives unfolding outside. The lovers pressed into doorways, hands hungry, lips clashing. The brief flashes of skin through open windows, moments so private they shouldn't have been visible--yet there they were, on display, unknowingly giving themselves to our gaze.

Desire hung in the air like humidity. Heavy. Lingering.

We didn't speak of it. Didn't need to.

In the reflection of the glass, I'd catch a glimpse of us--two figures draped in shadow and stillness. Two souls tucked behind the veil, watching what the world refused to show them.

Sometimes, instead of the street, Kai would turn her eyes on me.

She wouldn't say a word. Just watch as my hand moved, slow and focused, pulled into the haze of someone else's moment, someone else's pleasure--but twisted now, tangled up in my own.

She never stopped me. Never looked away.

Other times, she'd talk--softly, curiously, like she was reaching for the thread that unraveled me.

"Why do you watch?" she'd ask, her voice barely above a whisper. "When did you stop being in it and start living outside it?"

I told her the truth.

Not in some grand confession, not all at once. Just a quiet murmur in the dim light of the living room, as the sky outside dimmed into bruised purples and city gold.

"I'm not sure when it happened," I said, eyes still on the street, on a couple holding hands like they meant it. "I just... stopped feeling connected to people."

Kai didn't respond right away. She didn't need to.

So I kept going, the words unspooling slower than I meant them to. "I understand them. I can tell you what someone's feeling by the way they stand, how they move, the way their voice shifts when they're trying not to cry. I know what they'll do next, usually. That part's easy."

I glanced at the window, at our soft reflection in the glass.

"But being around them? Letting them see me? That's harder. That's the part I can't do."

Kai turned to me then, just slightly. I didn't need to look at her to know her eyes were on me, searching not for cracks but for truth in the ones I'd already let show.

"You don't like being seen?" she asked, her voice quieter now.

I exhaled. "Not really. Watching gives me space. Control. I get to feel what they're feeling without the mess of being in it. Without the weight of... being known."

A pause.

Then she spoke, not pressing, not fixing--just being there.

"But I see you," she said.

It was true.

And with her, it was different.

Kai kept her secrets. She never told me where she went during those midday absences. Never explained what pulled her away or what she did behind closed doors that left her walking back looking just a little unraveled.

But there were clues.

Her clothes didn't fall as neatly as when she left--skirts twisted, a sleeve slightly wrinkled, a button undone that hadn't been that way before. Her hair, once slick and perfect, now tousled, strands slipping loose like fingers had been there. Her lipstick smudged in the corners, mascara faintly blurred beneath her eyes.

She never offered explanations.

And somewhere along the line, I stopped needing them.

Because I wasn't watching to solve the puzzle anymore.

I was watching her.

And not from a distance--not in the way I had watched others.

I wanted her to see me.

Not just my body, not just the way I touched myself when she looked at me like she owned the room--but me, the mess beneath it. The quiet. The ache. The part I kept hidden from the world, even when it was screaming.

I wanted her to draw me in.

Pull me from behind the glass. Let me stand in the same storm she came from, feel whatever it was that left her flushed and undone.

I didn't want to just observe her world.

I wanted to be part of it.