I hadn’t even planned on staying the night.

My flight was grounded thanks to the storm rolling over the city, sheets of rain hurling against the airport windows as if the sky was angry at us all. The airline gave me a voucher and a hotel just off the strip. Nothing fancy, but clean, quiet. Room 1203. Twelfth floor. Corner room. I remember because the front desk clerk made a joke about the number, "Don’t worry, sir, no superstition here."

By the time I got in, I was bone-tired. Stripped out of my damp clothes, tossed my bag on the chair, and pulled open the curtains to see the storm for myself. That’s when I saw her.

Across the way, maybe two floors down, maybe three, but the same wing, lights on, blinds wide open.

And she was undressing.

It wasn’t a show. That’s what made it worse, or better. She was just moving through her room, barefoot on carpet, hair still damp, pulling her sweater over her head. I stood there, dumbstruck, as her bare back came into view. The line of her spine. The gentle curve of her hips in plain black panties.

She had no idea.

Or maybe she did.

She turned slightly, enough to give me a glimpse of her chest, but not enough to feel deliberate. Just a sliver. A flash of skin. And then she vanished into the bathroom.

I stood there like an idiot, suddenly aware I was still naked from the shower. My room was lit, too. The curtains open. The storm behind me. If she had looked up…

Was she looking?

I should have moved. Should’ve turned off the lights, should’ve closed the blinds, should’ve had some basic human decency. But I didn’t. I waited. Heart thudding in my throat like I was a kid again, caught somewhere between guilt and adrenaline.

Then the bathroom door in her room cracked open.

Steam rolled out first. Then came her shadow. Then her.

She walked out wrapped in a towel, barely. It clung to her, damp in places, showing the contours of her hips, the curve of her breasts. Her hair was up, twisted messily in a clip. She moved to the window and paused.

And looked right at me.

We locked eyes.

I felt it like a spark, instant and raw. My hand went still on the curtain. Her expression didn’t change, just a slight tilt of her head, like she was trying to decide if I was real.

Then, slowly, so slowly, she let the towel drop.

There was a moment, barely a heartbeat, where time didn’t move. She stood there, framed by the light of the room, body bare, skin kissed by the gold glow of the bedside lamp. Her breasts rose softly with each breath, nipples taut. Her stomach was flat, hips full, thighs strong. Between her legs, she was smooth, unhidden. She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t posing.

She was offering.

And I couldn’t look away.

My hand was already wrapped around my cock, thick and throbbing, the weight of her gaze fuelling a hunger I hadn’t felt in years. There was something about being seen. About knowing she was watching me, as much as I was watching her.

Then she lay back on the bed, still angled toward the window, her legs parting slowly.

Two fingers slid down her stomach.

Paused.

Then dipped between her thighs.

Her head tilted back, lips parted. I could see her chest rise as she drew in a breath, her fingers stroking gently at first, circling, testing, coaxing pleasure. My hand moved in rhythm, tight and slick, every motion synchronized with hers like some unspoken dance.

She moaned, silent to my ears but loud in my mind. Her back arched, one leg bent, opening her further, her fingers pressing deeper now, then drawing up to circle over her clit in slow, deliberate motions.

God, she was beautiful.

Her hips rolled, her pace quickened. I matched her, palm slick, strokes steady, every nerve in my body tightening with the buildup. Her mouth formed a soft ‘O’, her free hand gripping the sheet beneath her. Her thighs trembled.

She was close.

So was I.

Our eyes locked one last time.

And we came, together.

Her face lit in ecstasy, mine flushed with release, the silence between us somehow louder than any sound.

She collapsed back onto the bed, flushed and glowing, a satisfied stillness in her limbs. I leaned against the window, breath fogging the glass.

It didn’t feel like voyeurism. It didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt like a secret.

A moment that existed only between us.

Even if we never spoke.

The next morning, I checked out just after eight. Fresh shirt, coffee in hand, suitcase rolling behind me on worn carpet.

She was there.

At the front desk.

Same eyes. Same face. Hair loose now, jeans and a sweater, the illusion of normalcy wrapped tightly around the memory of what had happened the night before.

She glanced at me.

I glanced at her.

Nothing was said.

She signed something, nodded politely to the clerk, and walked right past me without a word. Without a smile. Without a flicker of recognition.

But I knew.

And I think she knew I knew.

Two strangers. No names. No promises.

Just a moment. Burned into memory.

Through the glass.