The sun was long gone, but the heat hadn't left with it.

Zeke leaned against the balcony rail, shirtless, the metal cool against the skin of his forearms. The tip of his cigarette burned a soft orange, and the smoke coiled upward in lazy spirals, mingling with the thick dusk air. His blond hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling over the rim of his glasses, the lenses catching flashes of citylight.

The street below was quiet, but it wasn't peace that kept him there.

It was habit. Or maybe hunger.

His eyes scanned across the street, not looking for anything in particular — until movement caught his attention.

A girl. His neighbor. Younger. Pretty. Careless.

She stepped out onto her own balcony, barefoot, balancing a laundry basket against her hip. The moment she did, Zeke stilled — cigarette paused between his fingers, half-finished. She was barely dressed: a tank top, snug and thin, and a pair of short shorts that looked like they belonged to someone younger than her or smaller than her — or maybe just someone less dangerous.

Zeke's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. She didn't see him. Not yet.

She set the basket down and began hanging clothes, lifting each one with thoughtless grace. A shirt. A pair of socks. Then a skirt — pleated and short — the kind that stirred something inside him, something he hadn't entertained in weeks. Or maybe months. He wasn't counting.

The muscles in his jaw tensed.

The tank top clung to her in all the right ways. Slightly damp from the heat. No bra. Every small movement sent a ripple through the soft lines of her body — the sway of her hips, the bounce in her chest, the delicate flex of her back when she reached upward to pin a shirt to the wire.

Zeke took a slow drag, letting the smoke burn through his lungs, but it did nothing to settle him.

She pulled out a pair of panties next. Lacy. Barely there. A color he couldn't name in the dark — but he could imagine the way it'd look twisted between his fingers. She held them by the waistband as she smoothed them out, then hung them beside a bra that matched. Delicate straps. Sheer cups. Not meant to hide anything. Just meant to be seen... then taken off.

His free hand flexed around the metal railing, veins tightening across his forearm.

She had no idea what she was doing to him.

Or maybe she did.

Because then she bent forward — not to squat, not to kneel — but to fold from the waist. Effortless. Unbothered. The shorts rode up mercilessly, flashing the curve beneath and leaving Zeke staring, stunned into stillness. The line of her thighs. The outline of her underwear. All of it right there.

Zeke exhaled, low and sharp. He dragged his cigarette one last time and crushed it out in the tray beside him, breath heavy, chest rising with the pressure building under his skin. His body was reacting faster than his mind could reason with. It had been too long. He hadn't been looked at like a man in months. Hadn't wanted like this in longer.

She picked up a camisole next — pale, thin, something you'd wear to bed and nothing else — and turned slightly as she hung it, just enough for him to see the full slope of her waist and the way her stomach curved inward. She stood on her toes, arms stretched, soft and exposed in the glow of her apartment behind her.

And then it happened.

She looked up.

Eyes met across the gap of open air between balconies. For a moment, everything stopped. Even the heat. Even the cicadas. Her gaze locked onto his, wide and still, and she didn't flinch. Didn't blush. Didn't pull back into the safety of her curtains.

Zeke didn't move either.

He let her look.

Let her see the way his eyes dragged down her body, unapologetic, heavy with want. Let her feel it. Let her understand that if she stayed in his sight for even one more second, she was going to burn with him.

Her lips parted slightly. She didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just held his gaze like she was testing something.

So he did the one thing he hadn't all night.

He spoke.

Low. Sharp. Heat curling through every word like smoke from a fire that had been burning for too long.

"You always hang your panties this slow?"

Silence.

Her brows lifted just barely — not in shock. In amusement.

Still, she said nothing.

Zeke smirked — crooked and lazy — then leaned forward on the railing, his voice dropping deeper.

"Or are you waiting for me to say something filthier?"

She moved again — slower this time — reaching into the basket like she wasn't in a rush to go anywhere. Another shirt. Another tease.

Zeke tilted his head, eyes dragging over her every exposed inch.

"You keep dressing like that on your balcony," he said, his voice gravel, "and I'm gonna forget how polite neighbors are supposed to act."

Another pause. The street was still. The city lights buzzed like neon tension between them.

Then she hung another piece.

Stayed quiet.

Stayed in view.

Zeke chuckled to himself, low and breathless, backing off the rail just a step. He knew this game. And he'd play it as long as she kept those damn shorts on — and even longer after they came off.

This night wasn't over.

Not even close.