I love the thrill of getting caught

She picked the window on purpose — third floor, facing the street, curtains pulled just wide enough. Her copper hair catches the afternoon light as she turns toward the glass, daring anyone below to look up.

Your pulse spikes watching her. She knows exactly what she's doing, one shoulder bare, fingers trailing her collarbone with practiced slowness. The risk is the whole point. She wants witnesses.

Every passing car is a potential audience. She holds eye contact with the city itself, flushed and unashamed, feeding on the possibility that right now, someone else is watching too.