I stepped out of the cab and waved as the taxi drove away. He was a familiar face, often the one to drop me home from work.
I moved to Spain a year ago as an English teacher through a cultural exchange program, and it had been the most peaceful, quiet year of my life. I wasn't complaining, though. I missed home sometimes, but then I remembered Mama's sermon, and suddenly I didn't anymore.
Absently, I searched for my key in my bag until I bumped into someone and dropped my keys.
"I'm sorry, I was looking for my key," I said, bending to pick them up.
I looked up to see a man with dark, untamed hair and deep brown eyes, almost black, staring down at me. He wore a tailored shirt and black jeans, his figure tall and imposing.
I straightened up, keys in hand, but the stranger didn't bother to help me. Rude.
"No need to apologize, hermosa." His voice was smooth and rich, thick with a Spanish accent. He must be a native speaker.
He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a teasing growl. "But you might want to be more careful, cariño. Wouldn't want you getting hurt."
My heart skipped, and I took a step back, feeling my cheeks flush under his gaze. His presence was almost suffocating in the best way possible, like he was so close, I couldn't breathe properly.
"Careful?" I repeated, straightening up, trying to mask the flutter in my chest. "I'm fine, really," I said, forcing myself to meet his eyes. But the words felt hollow.
He stared into my eyes, like he was looking for something, something I didn't know if I had the courage to give.
I folded my arms defensively, a gut reaction to protect myself. "I'll be careful, but I think you should be too," I added, my voice a little firmer than I intended.
Why wasn't he speaking? His silence felt like it was pushing me, and I didn't know how much longer I could stand there.
I took another step back, my pulse hammering in my ears. "Excuse me, I have work to do." I practically rushed past him, feeling the weight of his eyes on my back as I walked away.
What an odd person. He must be the new tenant above mine. The landlord had already told me about him, since we were a little close in the building.
I opened my door, stepped inside, and locked it behind me. I put him and the entire encounter out of my mind.
Or at least, I tried to.
*****
I sat at my desk, the wooden surface warm beneath my elbows as the golden hue of sunset spilled across the room. A soft breeze floated in through the open window, rustling the edge of the paper I was writing on. My tea had gone cold, but I didn't care. The silence wrapped around me like a familiar blanket, and for once, everything felt still. No stress, no noise, no memories of Mama's sermons tugging at the edges of my peace.
Just me, my work, and the fading light.
A soft clink broke the calm. My pen paused in the middle of a sentence. Keys. Somewhere above me, metal brushed against a lock. Then a turn. A door creaked. Footsteps moved across the ceiling, slow and deliberate.
I inhaled, blinked twice, and dipped my head back to the page. The man from earlier. He must have returned. I'd barely spoken to him, yet the air felt different since I saw him. Charged somehow. I pushed the thought away and tried to regain focus.
Then came the thud. A soft one, barely noticeable, followed by another. Footsteps. Heavy. Pacing.
The floorboards groaned above me. I sat still, spine straightening slightly. This was different from the usual creaks of the building. Then another sound drifted down, so faint at first I thought I imagined it. A voice. A moan. Light, breathy.
I stared at my notebook. The pen felt heavy in my hand.
Another moan. Louder now. A woman's voice, the kind you weren't meant to hear unless you were part of the moment.
I didn't move. My throat tightened. Her voice rose again, this time raw and sharp, echoing into the room like it had slipped through the walls just for me. I squeezed my thighs, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
He had company.
The creak of the bed. The quickening rhythm. Gasps. Skin against skin. Her laughter between each breath. It filled my space.
My breath caught. The urge came fast, sharp. My fingers twitched over the desk, aching for something to hold. I stared at the ceiling, unable to blink.
I had touched myself before. Quietly. Secretly. Each time followed by a prayer, a whisper to God for forgiveness. I told myself I was good. That I didn't need it. That one day, I would save myself for love.
But now, with every sound from above, that promise cracked a little more.
I swallowed hard and tried to write again. My hand shook.
Mama said sex was sacred, reserved. That it belonged behind a locked door after vows. But Mama wasn't here. Only the sounds of pleasure from upstairs, curling through the walls, coiling around my chest like smoke.
The ache returned. Stronger. I could feel it in my belly, between my legs, humming just beneath my skin.
I sat still, breath shallow, heart racing. . Then her voice broke into a scream that made me jump.
I bit my lip, legs pressing tighter together. My fingers curled into my skirt as the heat spread further, making it hard to think.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe. And I didn't dare touch myself.
But I stayed in that chair long after the moans faded, staring into nothing, still pulsing with a need I didn't understand, pretending I hadn't been listening. Pretending I didn't want more.