I saw her in her window for months before she saw me watching her.

My name is Camila Torres. Twenty-eight. Freelance photographer. I live on the 18th floor of The Meridian. My bedroom window faces the building across the street—close enough that I can see into apartments if blinds are open.

For three months I watched her. Apartment 1804. Her name was Elena Ruiz. Thirty-two. Yoga instructor. Long black hair, golden skin, body like liquid.

She never closed her curtains fully.

I told myself it was accidental. Curiosity. Art.

But I started timing my nights around her routine.

She practiced yoga naked at 11 p.m. Stretched. Sweated. Sometimes touched herself afterward, slow and unhurried.

One night she looked up—straight at me.

Our eyes locked across the gap. She didn’t look away.

Instead she smiled. Slow. Knowing.

Then she crooked a finger. Invitation.

My heart slammed. I stepped onto my balcony. She stepped onto hers.

The ocean breeze carried salt and jasmine.

“You’ve been watching,” she said, voice low, carrying perfectly.

“You’ve been showing.”

She laughed—soft, wicked.

“Come over.”

I didn’t think. I took the elevator down, crossed the street, rode the other elevator up. Knocked.

She opened the door naked.

No hello. She pulled me inside, kissed me like we’d been lovers for years. Hands everywhere. My sundress hit the floor.

She led me to the living room—floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights glittering below.

She pushed me onto the couch. Straddled me. Kissed my neck, my breasts. Fingers between my legs—finding me soaked.

“You’re dripping,” she whispered.

“Been like this for weeks.”

She slid down, spread my thighs, ate me like dessert—tongue flat, then pointed, circling my clit until I was bucking. I came hard, fingers tangled in her hair, crying her name.

Then she climbed back up. Positioned us scissor-style. Wet heat meeting wet heat. We rocked together—slow grinds turning frantic. Breasts pressed. Mouths fused.

I felt her clit rub against mine, slick and swollen. She came first—shuddering, gasping into my mouth. I followed seconds later, thighs clamping, wave after wave crashing through me.

Afterward we lay tangled on the couch, sweat cooling, city humming below.

She kissed my temple.

“Same time tomorrow?”

I smiled.

“Only if the blinds stay open.”

Some neighbors become more than neighbors.

Some nights become permanent.