"His name is Croissant."
"Whatever. Are you going to make a move or just keep watching Grumpy Hot Neighbor from your peephole forever?"
Put like that, it sounds pathetic. And maybe it is. Maybe I am. I've been watching him for eight months, give or take, and I notice everything about him. Those muscular thighs and calves flexing as he runs down the stairs. The delicious-looking biceps each time he opts for a muscle tee instead of a dri-fit shirt on his morning runs. The scar through his left eyebrow I've imagined tracing with my finger. His hands. God, his hands. Large and veiny.
I've built entire fantasies around those hands. Like, I had no idea hands could look sexy.
"Fine." I grab the card back. "What exactly do you suggest I write?"
Selena's smile widens. "Something he can't ignore. Tell him what you want."
"What I want…"
"Don't overthink it. Just be honest. What's the first thing you think about when you see him?"
His hands. His mouth. The way his t-shirts stretch across his chest when he's coming back from a run, the fabric taut, rippling and dark with sweat. Ohh, I get tingly just thinking about it.
I start writing, the pen scratching against the cheap cardstock.
Hello!
You probably don't know I exist beyond "that girl from 3B," but I've noticed you. Every morning, you run past my window. Sometimes I time my coffee from my balcony just to watch you come back, breathing hard, shirt clinging to your chest. Is that creepy? Maybe. But I've thought about those runs. About what would happen if one morning, you looked up and saw me watching. If you came upstairs still sweaty, still breathing hard, and knocked on my door instead of yours.
"That's more like it," Selena says, reading over my shoulder. "Keep going. Get specific."
I'm not THAT drunk, just loose enough that the words I've kept locked inside for months flow freely.
I've thought about your hands. They look strong—the kind of hands that would grip hard enough to leave marks. I've imagined them everywhere. Wondered if you'd be gentle or not. I'm not sure which I'd prefer.
Sometimes in the elevator, when it's just the two of us and that awkward silence, I think about hitting the emergency stop. About what might happen in those minutes before someone came. Would you lift me against the wall? Would you be shocked if I wrapped my legs around you?
I pause, realizing what I just wrote. "Oh God. This is too much."
"It's perfect, Em. Go on. Finish it strong."
I want your mouth on me. Everywhere. I want to know if you'd take your time or if you'd be efficient about pleasure the way you are about everything else. I've touched myself thinking about it, you kow. About you pushing into me slow and deep. About how your voice might sound when you come. Are you the groaning or grunting type? About how your stubble would feel between my thighs.
"Jesus, Emily." Selena's eyebrows rise to her hairline, and she tosses her head back to laugh. "Look who's been hiding depths."
I drop the pen, mortified. "I can't give him this."
"Of course you can." She picks up the card, reading it through. "He'd be crazy not to respond. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
She shrugs. "Nothing. I mean, he obviously keeps to himself for a reason. Maybe he's just not interested in ... you know. People."
"You think he's not into women?"
"Or maybe he's into a different type." Her eyes flick over me. "More ... athletic, maybe. Runners like him. The ones who put some effort into looking good, even at home."
The wine curdles in my stomach. I know what she's implying. That I'm not his type. That my curves and softness wouldn't appeal to someone like him. And honestly, like obviously, I thought about that too, many, many times.
Selena didn't have to say it straight to my face. I mean, I see myself in the mirror every day. I'm not blind.
With a sigh, I reach for the card. "You're right. This was a stupid idea."
She pulls it back and waggles a finger. "No, that's not what I meant at all! I think you should absolutely go for it."
