CURTAINS OPEN

About this story

For a year, my routine has been the same: he comes home from a flight, I close my blinds most of the way, and I watch the most beautiful man in Kloof undress like it's a private show laid on just for me. I told myself he didn't know. The mail I bring in, the packages I sign for, the pool I only use when he's away — I was so careful, so discreet, so completely unseen. Or so I thought. Then he came home a day early and found me naked in his pool, mid-orgasm, moaning his name to the moon like a prayer. I expected horror, or worse, a lecture. What I got was a towel held out by strong hands, a look that could start fires, and a confession that rearranged my entire year: the blinds were never closed on purpose. He knew. He liked it. He had been waiting the whole time. Now I have to decide whether being neighbours is a reason to stop before we ruin everything — or the best reason in the world to finally, finally start.