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The storm hit at nine o'clock, without warning.

Not the fine, treacherous rain of approaching autumn, but an electrical violence that tore the sky into luminous sections, illuminating for fractions of a second the apartment building's roofs, the chimneys, the satellite dishes that seemed unnatural against the historic building. The thunder followed one another with mathematical precision, one every thirty seconds, as if someone were counting them. And the rain fell in vertical sheets, transforming the streets into rivers, the windows into liquid mirrors, the outside world into an uninhabitable territory.

Luca sat at his desk, his Rapidograph in hand and the white tracing paper in front of him. The industrial loft he was supposed to be drawing didn't exist. The vanishing points converged toward the center of the page, but that center was a black hole, an absence he couldn't fill. For hours, for days, his body had been an antenna tuned to a single frequency: 3B.

And that evening, 3B was sending out signals.

The music came first. Low, muffled by the plaster, but recognizable. Something slow, jazzy, with a double bass pounding and a female voice whispering incomprehensibly. It wasn't the music Luca had heard in the first few weeks, the one that filtered in casually, like shared breathing. It was louder, more deliberate, as if Ethan had turned up the volume on purpose, as if he wanted the sound to cross the border and reach the other side.

Luca put down his pen. He stood up. He walked over to the wall and pressed his ear to it, as he had done in the first few weeks, when 3B was still uncharted territory. The music was clearer now. And beneath the music, another sound. The water running. Not the morning shower, brief and practical. It was a long, hot shower, the kind you take when you have time, when you have a purpose, when you're getting ready.

Luca's heart raced. His left wrist throbbed, that pulse, always that pulse, as if the memory of the touch in the elevator had been permanently etched into the tissue. He remained there, motionless, his forehead against the cold plaster, listening to the symphony coming from 3B: the slow music, the shower pouring, and, beneath them both, the silence of a presence that knew it was being heard.

The phone vibrated.

Luca pushed away from the wall with a sudden movement, almost as if caught red-handed. He crossed the living room in three strides, grabbed the phone, and looked at it. His heart, already pounding, became a wild drum.

Instagram. A direct message. And he sent you a message.

He opened it. He read.

It's cold. It's warmer here.

Signed, as always, with a single letter. E.

Luca read the message three times. The words were simple, almost banal. It's cold. The rain, the storm, the drop in temperature that accompanied the disturbed front. It's warmer here. An offer? An invitation? A statement? Yet, in their simplicity, those words were charged with a density that made Luca's fingers tremble.

He looked at the door.

The door to 3A. White-painted wood, with the standard lock, the round peephole, the metal handle glowing faintly in the desk light. Beyond that door, the corridor. To the left, the stairs. To the right, 3B. 3B, where the music played, where the shower roared, where, naked, wet, warm, he waited.

Luca was shivering. Not from the cold, even though the rain had lowered the temperature in the apartment. He was shaking with a tension that came from within, from his gut, from that precise spot between the stomach and the throat where desire nestles before becoming action. The phone was still in his hand, the message still open, the virtual keyboard waiting for a response.

He typed. He erased. He typed again.

Should I come and check?

The sentence came out bolder than it sounded. A double entendre that wasn't just linguistic, but physical, carnal, explicit. Verifying, the heat, yes, but also the truth of what had happened in the elevator, the truth of what they both knew but hadn't yet named. Coming, the movement through the corridor, across the border, across the threshold that separated 3A from 3B.

He pressed send. The message flew, through the ether, through the wall, to the phone Ethan held in the shower, or beside his bed, or in his hand, wet and warm.

The answer came before Luca could put the phone down. An instant, a heartbeat, a flash of lightning preceding the thunder.

The door is ajar.

Luca felt the blood drain from his face, then return in a rush that made him blush violently. The door was ajar. Not the door to 3A, not the bathroom door. The door to 3B. Ethan had left his own door open. He had left it open for him, for this night, for this moment. He had prepared it, arranged it, offered it like an altar for Luca to ascend.

He looked again at the door of 3A. Then at the phone. Then at the window, where the rain was pouring diagonally, where lightning lit up the inner courtyard in intermittent flashes. The world outside was chaos, water, unleashed electricity. The world inside, his apartment, his abandoned drawings, his orderly and controlled life, had become irrelevant.

He moved.

He didn't grab his jacket, he didn't grab his keys, he didn't grab anything. He crossed the living room with steps he didn't feel were his own, reached the door, turned the handle. The hallway greeted him with its dim light, its unnatural quiet, its smell of damp, detergent-like substances intensified by the rain. To the left, darkness. To the right, the door to 3B.

It was ajar. Really.

A crack of warm, yellowish light filtered into the dark corridor like an invocation. The music, now louder, now recognizable—"The Nearness of You" in a slow, sensual, almost funereal version—emerged from that crack, along with the steam, along with the scent of wet sandalwood, along with something more intense, more human, more indispensable.

Luca walked. His footsteps were silent on the tiles, but inside him, every step was thunder. When he reached the door, he stopped. He raised his hand. His fingers touched the wood, warm, moist with steam seeping from within.

He pushed.

The door gave way without a sound, without resistance. As if it had been waiting for him, as if it had been designed for this moment, for this entrance, for this delivery.

3B was different from how Luca had imagined it.

Not that he'd thought about it often, or maybe he had, maybe every night, maybe every time he heard the noises through the wall. But the image he'd constructed was different. He'd imagined an essential order, a blue wall, a masculine and controlled space. Instead, the apartment that opened up before him was a universe of shadows and warmth.

The light came from candles. Not lamps, not fluorescent lights, not the cold glow of 3A's desk. Real wax candles, placed on every available surface: the windowsill, the edge of a shelf, the floor itself in some places. Their flames flickered to the beat of the music, casting dancing shadows on the walls, the ceiling, the bodies.

Because there was a body.

Ethan stood a few meters from the entrance, his back to the door. Naked. Not partially, not like in the elevator with his jacket open. Completely. His golden, moist skin reflected the candlelight, his back muscles outlined in deep shadows, his buttocks firm and slightly contracted, his long, muscular legs resting on the floor with a stability that seemed to defy gravity.

He didn't turn around. Not when the door opened, not when Luca entered, not when Luca's labored, audible, unstoppable breathing filled the space.

"I thought you'd never come," Ethan whispered. His voice was low, hoarse, hoarseer than ever. It wasn't a request.

Luca didn't answer. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if it was an offer, a remark, or something else. He only knew that the corridor had become very small, that the air had become very thick, and that his heart was beating in a way that reminded him of being alive.

He took a step forward. Then another. Until he was within an inch of Ethan.

Up close, the smell was devastating. Sandalwood, yes, but also soap, wet skin, something deeper, more secret, more his. Luca felt his heart pounding in his temples, in his fingers, in his wrist—yes, in his wrist, where the memory of the touch rekindled with a force that made him flinch.

Ethan turned around.

Her face was bare of all expression, but her eyes, those green eyes, tinged gold by the candlelight, were filled with everything the previous weeks had accumulated. Hunger, patience, ferocity, sweetness. And something new: a vulnerability Luca had never seen, a chink in her armor, an opening that matched his own.

"Did you check?" Ethan asked, his voice cracking, his breath coming in short gasps.

Luca didn't answer. Not with words. With his body.

He raised his hand. He placed it on Ethan's chest. The contact was electric. The skin was still damp, slightly chilled by the air, but beneath the moisture was a warmth that seemed to come from the bones. Luca felt Ethan's heartbeat, rapid, powerful, thumping against his palm.

His hand descended. Slowly, with a slowness that seemed to memorize every millimeter, every vibration, every reaction. He moved across his abdomen, feeling the muscles contract beneath his fingers, hearing Ethan's breath catch for a moment. He reached the edge of the towel—no, there was no towel. Ethan was completely naked, exposed, vulnerable, offered.

Luca felt his mouth go dry. His heart was beating in a way that wasn't his, a rapid rhythm that wasn't due to the climb—he hadn't taken the stairs—or to the fatigue of the day.

Ethan took a step forward. Their bodies touched. Skin against skin, heat against heat, heart against heart. And then, finally, the kiss.

It was sweet at first. Almost shy, as if both feared reality wouldn't measure up to their fantasy. Luca's lips brushed against Ethan's, a light touch like a question, like an opening, like a "may I?" Ethan responded by closing his eyes and his lips parted slightly, welcoming, warm, moist.

But within seconds, something clicked.

Maybe it was Ethan's breathing that became labored, maybe it was the involuntary movement of his hips that pushed against Luca's, maybe it was Ethan's hand that rose and sank into Luca's hair with a force that betrayed weeks of repression. The kiss transformed. From sweet it became voracious, from shy it became desperate. Their tongues met with a thrust that seemed almost violent, exploring, conquering, demanding. Their teeth bit their lips, their jaws opened wider than necessary, their breaths mingled in a single, wet, raspy current.

Luca's hands, finally free, finally active, explored. No longer shy, no longer observant. Conquering. They rested on Ethan's back, on that back he'd seen in the Instagram photo, that muscular, sculpted back that was now beneath his fingers, real, alive, trembling. They traced the line of his spine, sank into the paravertebral muscles, slid along his narrow hips, and rose to the shoulder blades that moved to the rhythm of the kiss.

Ethan's back was a territory. Every muscle was a boundary to be crossed, every valley between two tendons was a shadow to be explored. Luca felt the sweat forming again on his skin, despite the recent shower, felt the heat radiating from Ethan's body, felt the tension building under his fingers as if he were shaping clay, as if he were drawing with touch what his eyes couldn't quite register.

Ethan moaned. The sound came from his throat against Luca's mouth, a vibrato that traveled directly to his tongue, his palate, his brain. Ethan's hands were everywhere: in his hair, on the nape of his neck, on his shoulders, moving down Luca's back with an urgency that seemed to want to strip him, to consume him, to make him part of his own body.

"Wait," Luca murmured, pulling away slightly, his lips burning.

But he didn't wait. He couldn't wait. Not him, not Ethan.

Luca pushed. With a strength he didn't know he possessed, with a resolve that came from a place older than reason, he pushed Ethan against the couch. Ethan gave in, flopped onto the backrest, his legs opening to welcome Luca between them. Luca climbed on top of him, his knees digging into the cushions, his hands resting on the armrests, his body leaning forward like a taut bow.

The kiss resumed, deeper, more obscene. Luca's hands returned to Ethan's back, but this time from a different angle, from above, from behind, exploring every curve, every prominence, every spot where the skin became thinner, more sensitive. Ethan writhed beneath him, his hips lifting, seeking, offering.

"It's you," Ethan murmured against Luca's neck, his voice cracking, his breathing hitching. "It's you who comes. It's you who takes."

Luca didn't answer. His hands moved down his back, reaching his firm buttocks, gripping them with a force that left white imprints on the golden skin. Then they slowly moved up to his shoulder blades and pushed Ethan lower, deeper into the couch, further beneath him.

The sofa creaked. The cushions squished. And in the small living room of 3B, with the amber light flickering and the closed door sealing off the world, Luca made his first move. No longer an observer, no longer awaited, no longer passive. But an actor, a conqueror, a possessor.

When they joined, it was with a jolt that made them both gasp. Luca led the movement, his hands still on Ethan's back, his fingers digging into the muscles, his eyes never leaving the green ones that looked at him with a mixture of amazement and gratitude. Every thrust was a declaration, every withdrawal a promise, every new entry a signature on a contract that needed no words.

Ethan surrendered. For the first time, he was the one to give in, to let go, to offer himself unconditionally. His sculpted back arched, his neck threw back, his moans became louder, freer, more real. And Luca, above him, inside him, around him, felt the power of the first move. Not the power to dominate, but the power to choose, to move through, to conquer what you desire.

When they came, it was together. Not perfectly synchronized, but in a wave that spread from one to the other, bouncing, amplifying. Luca buried his face in Ethan's neck, biting, sucking, leaving a mark that wouldn't fade for days. Ethan screamed, a sound that wasn't muffled, not masked, it was simply the explosion of an anticipation finally finding its release.

Then, silence.

Not the heavy silence of before, but a sated, composed, definitive silence. Luca remained on top of Ethan, his legs still wrapped around his hips, his hands still on his back, which was now covered in sweat, his forehead resting against his shoulder, which rose and fell with a slowing breath.

"The first move," Ethan murmured, his voice cracking, a hint of humor mingling with his tiredness. "Did I teach you that?"

Luca raised his head. He looked Ethan in the eye. And smiled. A smile he'd never used before, one he didn't know he possessed. The smile of someone who'd walked down the hall, opened the door, taken what he wanted.

"No," he replied, his voice hoarse, his lips still burning. "I learned that on my own."

Ethan laughed. A low, vibrating sound that resonated in Luca's chest where their bodies still joined. Then his hands rose, cupped Luca's face, and kissed him. Not greedily this time. But softly. With a tenderness that was also recognition, also surrender, also an admission that the game had changed forever.

In the hallway, the neon light flickered and steadied. And in 3B, on the couch, with the candles still lit and their bodies still entwined, two neighbors had finally stopped being just neighbors.

But outside, beyond the door, the storm continued. And the shower, that shower that had roared for hours, that had prepared Ethan's body, that had invited Luca through the wall, was still there, waiting. For the morning.