Chapter 2: The Window Performances

The apartment on the edge of Midtown, Kansas City, was a compromise wrapped in necessity. Mia signed the lease in late July—two weeks after the graduation party still echoed in her muscles as faint, pleasurable aches. The place was cheap: $675 a month for a one-bedroom with peeling beige paint that flaked like old skin, a kitchenette that smelled faintly of old grease and yesterday’s coffee, and windows that overlooked a narrow courtyard shared with the building next door. The courtyard itself was a forgotten strip of cracked concrete, overgrown weeds pushing through fissures, a single dying maple providing patchy shade. Harlan Graves, the landlord, had met her at the door with a keyring jangling in his thick fingers and a slow once-over that lingered on her legs, her hips, the way the sundress clung to her sweat-damp skin in the July heat. She’d smiled politely, signed the papers on his clipboard, and moved in with two suitcases, a thrift-store lamp, and a mattress tied crookedly to the roof of her beat-up hatchback.

The first few nights were quiet. She unpacked slowly—books on mismatched shelves, clothes folded into drawers that stuck—hung a single string of warm fairy lights along the bedroom window frame because the bare bulb overhead buzzed like an angry insect. She left the blinds half-open because the AC unit in the wall rattled violently when the slats were fully closed, sending fine dust sifting down like dirty snow. She told herself it was practical. Deep down, she knew better.

The hunger from the rooftop hadn’t dulled—it had sharpened into something insistent, almost painful. Every time she touched herself now, she pictured eyes on her: Ethan’s knowing gaze, Sophie’s teasing smile, Miles’s hungry stare, the strangers in the bathroom doorway who’d watched her shatter without ever speaking her name. The apartment felt like a stage waiting for an audience, the courtyard a dark orchestra pit.

*First Performance – Accidental Invitation*

It happened on the third night, the air still thick with daytime heat even after sunset.

Mia showered late—almost midnight—standing under the weak spray until the hot water turned lukewarm, then tepid. Steam clouded the tiny bathroom mirror into a soft blur; she wiped a stripe clear with her forearm and caught her own reflection: cheeks flushed from heat, hair dark and plastered to her neck, droplets tracing slow, meandering paths down her collarbone, between her breasts, along the gentle curve of her hip. She didn’t bother with a towel beyond a quick pat-dry of her hair. Naked, skin still glistening, she padded barefoot into the bedroom.

The fairy lights she’d strung along the top of the window frame glowed soft gold—dozens of tiny warm bulbs casting overlapping halos across the walls and bed. She had left the blinds half-open that morning because the AC rattled louder when they were fully closed. Tonight, she made no move to adjust them. The courtyard below was empty: cracked concrete, overgrown weeds brushing against the chain-link fence, the single dying maple rustling in a faint breeze. Across the narrow divide—twenty feet at most—the facing unit was dark, windows reflecting only the faint orange streetlight from the alley.

Or so she thought.

Mia stood at the window for a long moment, letting the cool glass press against her hardening nipples. The contact made her breath hitch; she shifted her weight, thighs brushing together, already aware of the low, insistent ache building between them. She lifted her arms to towel her hair roughly—elbows high, breasts lifting—then let the towel drop to the floor. Naked, backlit by fairy lights, she turned slowly toward the bed.

She propped two pillows against the headboard, settled back against them with a small sigh. One knee bent, foot flat on the rumpled sheet; the other leg extended long, toes pointed toward the ceiling fan that spun lazy circles overhead. Her right hand drifted down—fingertips tracing idle, feather-light circles over her mound, then lower, parting slick folds that were already warm and swollen from the heat and anticipation she hadn’t admitted to herself.

She started slowly.

Two fingers slid inside—easy, no resistance—curling gently while her thumb brushed her clit in soft, unhurried arcs. Her breath came shallow; she arched her back slightly, breasts rising toward the ceiling, nipples tightening further in the draft from the AC. The fairy lights reflected in her half-lidded eyes like captured stars. She added pressure—thumb circling faster, fingers plunging deeper—then pinched her left nipple with her free hand, rolling it hard enough to draw a soft gasp that carried through the open window into the night.

That’s when the light flicked on across the courtyard.

A single desk lamp first—warm yellow—then the overhead bulb, flooding the room opposite with stark white. A man stepped to the window: tall, lean, dark curls falling over wire-rimmed glasses, hoodie unzipped halfway to show a sliver of toned chest dusted with hair. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hide, didn’t look away. He stood—arms crossed loosely over his chest, head tilted slightly—as if appraising a painting in a quiet gallery after hours.

Mia’s pulse slammed into her throat. Adrenaline flooded her system—fight, flight, freeze—but none of them won. Instead, she felt heat bloom low in her belly, sharper than before. She should have stopped, rolled away, yanked the blinds shut, killed the lights. Instead, she spread her legs wider—knees falling open until her feet dangled off the edges of the mattress, heels brushing air. The movement pulled her folds apart further; she knew he could see everything: the slick shine, the way her inner lips flushed dark pink, the slow drip of arousal already gathering at her entrance.