Midnight Neighbor
It started with thin walls. She could hear him through the cheap plaster — late-night phone calls, soft laughter, the low hum of a movie when she couldn’t sleep. She liked the sound of him — rough, deep, the kind of voice that made her thighs press together in the dark. At first, she told herself it was innocent — neighbors passing in the hallway, sharing polite smiles, borrowed sugar and broken small talk in the laundry room at 2 AM. But tonight, the loneliness pressed harder than her guilt. She knocked on his door with bare feet and no plan. He opened it shirtless, eyes heavy with sleep and surprise that melted into something darker when he saw her in just his old t-shirt she’d never returned. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice rough. She just nodded. He stepped aside. The air between them cracked like static. Inside, the TV flickered some old black-and-white film — neither of them cared. He sat on the couch first, legs spread, eyes following her every step as she crossed the carpet. ...