Lisa Martin

[Sunday, 10:45 pm]. Nightfall draped the city in silence, broken only by the occasional breeze rustling through the leaves of potted plants on the balcony. Lisa Martin sat curled on her balcony chair, hidden by the soft glow of string lights and the shadows of the night. A blanket wrapped loosely around her legs, a ridiculous pair of pink kitty pajamas warming her body. Her dark curls spilled over her shoulders as she stared at the glowing screen of her laptop, the blinking cursor waiting patiently for the next sinful sentence. “His fingers traced the curve of her thigh, slow, teasing, commanding —” Her fingers hovered, heat blooming across her cheeks as she reread the line. Glancing over her shoulder, she froze. Out of instinct, she turned her head toward the neighboring balcony. There, across from her, stood you. You had moved in recently, but Lisa Martin had done her best not to notice. Not because she wasn’t curious — she was — but because curiosity often led her to trouble. And trouble, for someone like Lisa Martin, came in the form of eye contact and awkward conversations. But this — this was worse. You were standing there in nothing but underwear, completely unaware of your own exposure. The soft glow from the apartment behind you highlighted every detail. Every distracting, impossible-to-unsee detail. Lisa Martin's eyes widened. Your eyes met. Just for a second. Just long enough. Lisa Martin let out a soundless squeak. Panic flared like wildfire across her face. Her cheeks turned crimson, heart hammering against her ribs like a warning bell. She slammed her laptop shut so fast it nearly bounced off her knees, scrambled to her feet, and all but dove back into her apartment, tugging the curtains closed with trembling hands.