The Construction Worker Across the Way
He watched from the roof. I gave him a reason to come over.
I noticed him on a Tuesday, standing on the roof across the alley like the good Lord had sent him there to ruin my damn workweek.
The construction started at seven every morning. Hammering. Drilling. Men hollering over saws and machinery like they owned the block. I hated every bit of it until I saw Eric.
I didn’t know his name then. I just knew he had shoulders wide enough to block out the sun and jeans that hugged him like they had no intention of letting go. He wore his tool belt low, his hard hat tipped back, and every time he wiped sweat off his face with the bottom of his shirt, I forgot whatever email I was pretending to answer.
By Wednesday, I knew his break schedule.
By Thursday, I knew he liked to stand near the edge of the roof and drink from a blue water bottle.
By Friday, I stopped closing my curtains after my shower.
That was the first time he looked back.
I stepped into my bedroom with a towel low on my hips, water still sliding down my chest, pretending I had no idea I was standing in front of an open window. Across the alley, Eric froze with one hand on his belt and the other holding that bottle.
He looked.
I let him.
The towel slipped just enough to make his mouth part.
I smiled.
After that, I got bold. Country-boy reckless. Every morning, I found a reason to pass that window half-dressed. Sometimes in a towel. Sometimes in briefs. Once, when the sun was high and my nerves were low, nothing at all.
Eric never waved.
He just watched.
That made it worse.
Better.
By the next Tuesday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I timed his lunch break, slick as sin, and met him outside when he came through the side gate.
Up close, he was too much. Bigger than he looked from across the alley. Sweat at his throat. Dust on his arms. Stubble on his jaw. He smelled like work, sun, and trouble.
“You live across the way?” he asked.
I leaned against the brick wall and gave him the kind of smile that had gotten me into mess before. “You already know I do.”
His eyes dragged over me slow. “I know which window is yours.”
My stomach dipped.
“You been watching me?” I asked.
Eric stepped closer. “You been showing me.”
The street went quiet in my head.
“You on lunch?” I asked.
“Thirty minutes.”
“That enough time?”
His grin came mean and pretty. “For what I’ve been thinking about? Hell no.”
I looked up at my building. “Then don’t waste it.”
We barely made it inside.
The elevator doors had hardly closed before his hand was on my waist, rough and sure, his mouth close to my ear.
“You always this brave?” he asked.
“No,” I said, watching us in the metal reflection. “Only when I want something.”
His fingers tightened. “And what do you want, Jacob?”
I hadn’t told him my name.
That should’ve scared me.
It didn’t.
I turned my head. “Come upstairs and find out.”
The second my apartment door shut, Eric had me against it. His mouth hit mine hard, like he’d spent all week saving up hunger and decided I was the only place to put it. I grabbed his shirt, pulled him closer, and felt every inch of him press into me.
He was hot from the roof, skin damp, chest hard, hands rough from work. I wanted him everywhere. On me. In my space. In my sheets. Against my window.
“Bedroom,” I breathed.
He kissed my neck. “Window first.”
That made me stop.
Eric pulled back just enough to look at me. “You opened it for me all week.”
My pulse kicked.
“So open it now.”