The glass between the two buildings was old enough to distort what passed behind it, so that for the first two weeks in October, Clara knew the man across the alley only as a broad shoulder and the blue flicker of a television screen that stayed lit until two in the morning.

Their courtyard was five floors down, paved in damp red brick and planted with a single stunted ailanthus tree whose leaves had turned the color of wet cardboard. From her kitchen table, Clara’s window looked directly across the narrow shaft into his bedroom—no more than twenty feet, close enough that when both their sashes were raised against the autumn stuffiness, she could hear the rattle of his radiator pipes and the sharp clink of a belt buckle dropping onto hardwood.

She did not turn off her own lamps at first. She was grading essays, her red pen clicking rhythmically against the rim of a mug, when she glanced up and saw him standing at his dresser with his shirt off.

He was not looking at her. He had unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down with both hands, stepping out of them and leaving them in a heap by the laundry basket. He wore grey boxer briefs that hugged the curve of his hips, the cotton taut over his thighs. His skin had the pale, scrubbed look of someone who worked under fluorescent lights all day, but his shoulders were thick, a dusting of dark hair tapering down his sternum into the waistband.

Clara’s pen stopped moving. She kept her fingers resting against the barrel, breath catching softly in the quiet apartment.

He turned toward the window to catch the night breeze. He rested one palm against the painted frame, his fingers spreading out. And then, without any hurry or suddenness, his eyes drifted across the narrow brick gap and met hers.

He didn't startle. He didn't pull back behind the dingy linen curtain hanging limp at the edge of the sill. He simply stood there, illuminated by the amber glow of the bedside lamp behind him, his dark eyes steady on her face.

Clara felt heat surge up her collarbones, stinging the hollow of her throat. Every instinct of polite city living urged her to look away, to pretend she had been staring blankly into the courtyard while pondering a sentence on the page. Instead, her chin remained lifted. She stayed motionless in her high-backed wooden chair, hands resting flat on the oilcloth tablecloth.

Across the alley, the man’s mouth softened into the faintest hint of a line—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. Slowly, deliberately, his right hand moved from the window jamb down to his stomach. His fingers traced the line of hair downward, sliding under the grey elastic band of his shorts.

Clara’s heart slammed once, hard, against her ribs.

He didn't take his eyes off her. He curled his fingers around the cotton, tugged it down past his hips, and let it fall to his ankles, stepping clear. In the soft lamp glow, his cock was already half-hard, thick and flushed dark, resting against the curve of his thigh. He took another half-step closer to the sill, placing himself entirely within the pane, bathed in light.

He was offering himself to her gaze, bare and deliberate.

Clara let her gaze drop. She looked at the heavy curve of his shaft, the slow pulse visibly ticking under the pale skin, the tightness of his testicles. A wet, electric throb pooled between her legs, sudden and heavy enough to make her shift in her seat. The rough denim of her jeans rubbed against her center, and a quiet gasp broke from her lips.

The man’s knuckles tightened. He wrapped a broad hand around his length, fingers squeezing at the base, and began to slide his grip upward with slow, measured strokes. Each pull drew the foreskin back, exposing the dark, shining head to the cool alley air. His gaze never left her face; he watched her watch him, his breath shallow enough that his chest rose and fell in rapid rhythm.

Clara’s fingers trembled as she reached down to the top button of her jeans. She popped the copper rivet. The sound seemed loud enough to echo across the bricks. She watched his pupils widen across the dark space, catching the motion.

She unzipped the fly, the metal teeth parting with a low rasp. She didn't stand up. She tilted her hips, sliding her hand into the opening of her denim, past the thin lace of her underwear. When two fingers slipped between her folds, they sank into slick, burning warmth. She groaned into the empty room, her palm pressing hard against her mons.

Across the glass, his stroke quickened. His hand pumped steadily now, a firm, glistening rhythm, the skin sliding wetly over the ridge of his cock. A bead of clear pre-cum caught the lamplight at the tip, smeared smooth by the thumb on the next stroke. His free hand gripped the window sash so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Look at you,” she whispered, her voice husky, knowing he couldn't hear the words, only the shape of her lips moving.

His lips parted. He mouthed something back—a single syllable, maybe yes, maybe her imagined name—and his hips thrust forward slightly into the motion of his fist. He was completely erect now, rigid and heavy, the veins standing out along the shaft like corded twine.

Clara worked two fingers deep inside herself, curling them upward against the swollen front wall. The friction was unbearable, sweet and urgent. With her thumb, she found her clit, circling the hard bud through slickness. Her other hand gripped the edge of the kitchen table, knuckles white, her heels digging into the floorboards.

He was watching her hand move beneath the unzipped denim. He knew exactly what she was doing; he could see the strain in her throat, the way her head fell back against the wood of the chair, the tremor running through her shoulders.

“Don't stop,” she breathed, looking straight back into his dark eyes.

He wasn't stopping. His strokes were ragged now, short and furious, his shoulders tensing as the edge approached. His gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that felt as physical as a hand around her waist. Through twenty feet of chilly night air, they held each other pinned by sight alone.

Clara rubbed faster, the pressure mounting into a tight, dizzying ache that threatened to shatter her ribs. She saw the sudden convulsion grip his torso—the arch of his back, the sudden stiffening of his thighs.

“Now,” she whispered.

The orgasm tore through her with a sharp, shuddering cry. Her inner walls clamped hard around her fingers, pulsing in waves of violent, liquid release that left her hips trembling against the chair. At the exact same second, his head snapped back, his mouth open in a silent shout, and thick, white ropes of come spurted across his hand, arcing against his belly and splashing onto the dark wood sill between them.

He pumped through the spasms, shuddering violently, his breath misting faintly against the cool glass.

For a long minute, neither of them moved. The city hummed distantly around them—a siren three avenues over, the rustle of the ailanthus leaves below. Clara sat slumped in her chair, fingers still wet inside her jeans, her chest heaving as the aftershocks subsided into a steady, blissful heat.

Across the alley, he slowly withdrew his hand, his chest slick with sweat. He looked down at the mess on the sill, then looked back up at her.

He smiled—a slow, genuine, thoroughly ruined smile. He reached up, gently drew the linen curtain half across the window, leaving just a sliver of light, and raised one hand in a quiet, solemn salute before stepping back into the shadow of his room.

Clara slowly pulled her hand free from her jeans, brought her glistening fingers to her lips, and tasted the salt of herself in the dark.