The Balcony Across

The Balcony Across – Part 1

I first noticed him the week I moved into my apartment in Trastevere, Rome.

It was supposed to be a short escape — three months of wine, cobblestone streets, and quiet evenings to work on my travel photography portfolio. My balcony overlooked a narrow, picturesque street lined with pastel façades, potted geraniums, and wrought-iron railings.

And then there was his balcony.

Directly across from mine.

On my first evening, I stepped outside with a glass of wine and my camera, trying to capture the golden light as it slid down the terracotta rooftops. That’s when I saw movement. A tall figure stepped out, the last sunlight catching in his hair — dark, a little tousled, like he’d just run his fingers through it. He wore a white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show the hollow of his throat, and dark trousers that made his frame look even taller.

He was talking on the phone in Italian, his voice low and warm, carrying easily across the narrow street. I didn’t understand much, but it didn’t matter — it wasn’t the words that caught me, but the way his lips moved around them.

I lifted my camera instinctively — not to photograph him, just to… frame him.

As if sensing my gaze, he turned. His eyes locked on mine.

I froze.

He didn’t smile. Not exactly. But his mouth curved, just slightly, into something that felt more intimate than a smile. Then, without breaking eye contact, he set his wine glass down, leaned on the railing, and looked back at me like he’d been expecting me all along.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Over the next few days, I told myself it was nothing. Just a neighbor. Just a man who happened to be beautiful. But each night, when I stepped out onto my balcony, he was there. Sometimes leaning against the railing, sometimes sitting with a book, sometimes simply standing in the doorway, watching the street — and sometimes… watching me.

One night, as the air cooled and the street below grew quiet, I lingered on my balcony longer than usual. My camera hung loosely from my neck, forgotten. He was there too, leaning against the railing in that same casual, magnetic way.

“You’re American,” he said finally, his accent deliciously heavy.

I smiled faintly. “Guilty.”

“Photographer?”

I glanced at my camera. “How could you tell?”

“The way you look at things,” he said. “The way you look at me.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I didn’t know what to say.

He held my gaze a beat longer, then tipped his head toward his apartment. “You want to see the view from here?”

I hesitated. The sensible part of me screamed no. But curiosity… curiosity was louder.

I crossed the narrow street minutes later, my heart thudding against my ribs. His building was older, with a carved wooden door that creaked when he opened it. He stepped aside to let me in, the scent of him — warm, clean, with a hint of something darker — enveloping me as I passed.

Inside, his apartment was dimly lit, the balcony doors thrown open to the night. I stepped out, and the view was almost the same as mine — except closer to him.

“You watch me a lot,” he said, coming to stand beside me.

I laughed softly. “You watch me too.”

“Maybe,” he murmured. “Maybe I like watching.”

Something in the way he said it made my pulse quicken. His eyes drifted over my face, lingering on my lips. For a moment, neither of us moved. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the faint clink of a wine glass inside.

Then, as if on cue, a warm breeze lifted a strand of hair across my cheek. He reached up to tuck it behind my ear, his fingers brushing my skin with deliberate slowness.

It was such a small touch. But it felt like the beginning of something dangerous.

I stepped back, trying to steady myself. “I should—”

“You should stay,” he said.

And I did.

We talked for hours — about Rome, about photography, about his work (something vague in real estate that he didn’t elaborate on). He had a way of asking questions that made me want to answer honestly, even when the answers felt too intimate for a stranger.

By the time I left, it was after midnight. And when I stepped onto my own balcony, I could still see him across the street, leaning on his railing, watching me walk into my apartment.

The next night, I waited until the hour was indecent before stepping outside. He was already there, wine glass in hand. We didn’t speak — just stood, looking at each other across the narrow gap, the tension between us thick enough to taste.

And then he did something that made my breath catch.

Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned his shirt. One button. Two. Three. He didn’t take his eyes off me.

It wasn’t overtly sexual — it was something else, something more intimate. An invitation.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then he smiled — slow, knowing — and stepped back inside.

I should have felt relief. Instead, I felt… anticipation.

The Balcony Across – Part 2

I told myself I wouldn’t go over there again.

That what happened the other night — the slow unbuttoning, the way his eyes pinned me in place — was nothing more than a game. But games have a way of getting under your skin, and by the following evening, I was restless.

The street below was quiet. My balcony door was open. And across the narrow divide, his apartment glowed in soft amber light.

He stepped out a moment later, as if he’d been waiting for me. No words — just that slow, wicked smile. He held up a bottle of wine and tilted his head toward his door.

I went.

Inside, the air was warm with the scent of red wine and something deeper — leather, spice, the faint trace of cologne. He poured me a glass and guided me toward the balcony. The city spread out in gold and shadow below, but all I saw was him.

“You came back,” he murmured.

“You invited me,” I replied.

“Only because you wanted me to.”

There it was — the truth neither of us had said out loud.

We stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand brushed mine, just once, but it felt deliberate, like the first move in a dance.

“Do you always seduce your neighbors?” I asked, trying for playful, but my voice came out softer, needier.

“Only the ones worth watching,” he said. His gaze lingered on my lips, then dropped lower.

I didn’t move when his fingers traced my wrist, sliding upward, slow as silk. My breath caught. The night air wrapped around us like velvet.

He leaned in, his lips grazing my ear. “I think about you,” he whispered. “Standing out there. Looking at me.”

His hand slid to my hip, warm and certain.

“I think about you too,” I admitted.

It was enough. His mouth found mine, slow at first — testing, tasting — before deepening into something hungrier. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss was hot, dizzying, the kind that steals time.

When we finally broke apart, his forehead rested against mine. “Stay,” he murmured.

And I should have said no. But I stayed.

Later, we sat on the balcony floor, legs tangled, wine forgotten. The city below hummed softly, but we were somewhere else entirely. He brushed his thumb across my lower lip, studying me like I was a puzzle he’d been trying to solve.

Then, a sound.

A soft click of the front door.

He froze.

I turned, expecting a roommate or friend — but instead, a woman stepped into view.

Tall. Elegant. Dark hair swept into a knot. A silk robe the color of midnight clung to her like water. She didn’t look surprised to see me. She looked… amused.

“Well,” she said, her Italian accent rich and smooth, “so this is the photographer.”

I scrambled to stand, but she held up a hand. “No, please. Don’t be shy. I’ve been watching you too.”

Her gaze flicked to him, and something unspoken passed between them. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t even look nervous.

“I— I should go,” I stammered.

“You should stay,” she countered, stepping closer. Her eyes held mine, assessing, almost… inviting.

I glanced at him. He was watching me, expression unreadable, but there was heat in his gaze.

“This isn’t what you think,” she said softly. “Or maybe it’s exactly what you think.” She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing mine. The touch was electric. “You’ve been on that balcony for weeks. You didn’t think it was only him watching, did you?”

The floor tilted under me. My pulse roared in my ears.

She smiled, slow and knowing. “We like beautiful things,” she said. “And we like to share them.”

Her hand slid into his. He didn’t pull away.

“This is insane,” I whispered.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But you came here tonight because you wanted something… more.” Her voice dropped lower. “And we can give it to you.”

The night air was thick with wine, desire, and something I couldn’t quite name. My sensible mind told me to leave. My body told me to stay.

I looked between them — him with his slow-burning gaze, her with her feline grace — and realized I was standing on the edge of something that could ruin me.

Or set me free.

I left just before dawn, slipping across the street as the city began to stir. From my balcony, I looked back. They were both there, side by side, watching me.

And the next evening, when the red wine bottle appeared on his railing, I didn’t hesitate.

I crossed the street.