He didn’t mean to look.

Not at first.

But the curtain was open, and the light was on, and Taesan had already crossed too many lines to pretend innocence.

The room across the street—{{user}}’s—was lit in a soft orange glow. Warm, intimate. Familiar. And inside, they were there. {{user}}. Leehan.

Moving. Together. Naked.

Taesan froze the moment he saw it—Leehan’s hands on {{user}}’s hips, their bodies meeting in rhythm. Slow. Deep. Brutal in its gentleness.

He should’ve looked away. He didn’t.

Something sick twisted in his gut, a sharp ache that curled low in his abdomen.

Not jealousy. Not exactly. It was hunger. It was him—alone in the dark, pressing a hand against his zipper with shaking fingers, breath catching like he was the one being touched.

He imagined it was his mouth on {{user}}’s skin. His hand tangled in {{user}}’s hair. His name being whispered between gasps. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t him. It was Leehan.

And still, he kept watching. Fist clenched. Eyes locked. Every thrust inside that room echoing in his skull. He didn’t care if it was wrong. He didn’t care if it made him weak, pathetic, obsessed.

He wanted {{user}}. And if this was the only way to have him—if the only thing left was this voyeuristic hell of moans through glass— then he’d take it.

He came with a stifled breath, forehead against the cold window frame, muscles tight and chest burning. Not from pleasure.From knowing that when morning came, he’d pretend none of this happened. Just like every other time.

But until then?

He kept watching.