Balcony Confessions — Two Floors Down

He lived two floors below me. I saw him every morning — coffee on his balcony, shirtless, reading the news on his phone. He was probably 23, with sandy hair and a swimmer's build. I was 20, and I'd started taking my morning coffee shirtless too, in just a sports bra and shorts. Tit for tat.

It started with waves. Then smiles. Then one evening, I was sitting on my balcony in a sundress, and he was on his, and he lifted his coffee mug in a silent toast. I lifted mine back.

That night, the game changed.

I was on my balcony at midnight, unable to sleep, in just an oversized t-shirt. The courtyard was dark. His balcony light flicked on. He stepped out in just sweatpants, looked up, and saw me. Neither of us looked away.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled down his sweatpants. He was hard already, stroking himself while looking up at me. My breath caught. I could see him clearly in the balcony light — the length, the thickness, the way his hand moved.

I pulled my t-shirt over my head.

Now I was naked on my third-floor balcony, the night air cool on my skin. He groaned — I could hear it across the courtyard. I sat in my chair, spread my legs, and touched myself where he could see. One hand on my breast, the other between my thighs.

We masturbated for each other across the dark courtyard — me with three fingers working in and out, him with his fist pumping faster. I watched his face contort. He watched me arch off my chair. We came within seconds of each other.

The next morning, we finally met in the lobby.

"I'm Leo," he said.

"Mia."

"Your balcony has a great view."

"So does yours."

We never bothered with the balcony again. After that first hallway meeting, we went straight to my apartment. He fucked me on my actual bed — in private, no courtyard audience — and that was even better.