Through the
Wall

You heard him through the wall every night — the wet slide of his fist, the ragged breath he tried to contain. You answered with a soft, deliberate moan timed to match his rhythm, letting him know you could hear, that you understood exactly what he was doing two feet away. The next night the knocking stopped. Footsteps crossed the hall. When you opened the door he didn't speak — just looked at your mouth, then at the dark apartment behind you. You stepped aside. He fucked you against the same wall you'd listened through, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to leave marks. Every thrust made the old plaster sigh. You came with your teeth buried in his shoulder to stay quiet. He followed right after, buried deep, breathing like he'd been holding it for weeks. You didn't exchange names. He left before dawn. The wall feels thinner than ever.