Chapter 1: New Beginnings

The summer after college graduation was a whirlwind of new chapters for Meagan and me. We married in a quiet, sun-dappled ceremony at her father's courthouse, surrounded by family who beamed at our traditional union. We'd met in our junior year at a Christian student group, drawn together by shared values, and, true to our upbringings, remained virgins until our wedding night. It was a choice that surprised our peers, who saw our fit physiques and easy charm and assumed otherwise. For us, though, it was a badge of honor, rooted in the strict households we'd grown up in—my father, a pastor, preached purity from his pulpit, while Meagan's father, a county judge, governed his home with unwavering discipline.

Meagan was radiant—platinum blonde hair that shimmered like spun silver, standing at 5'4" with a figure that seemed perfectly crafted. Her curves were subtle yet captivating, her smile warm but reserved, and her green eyes held a quiet resilience. I wasn't hard on the eyes either—tall, lean from years of running, with dark hair and a boyish grin that Meagan said made her heart flutter. Together, we were the image of a young, hopeful couple, ready to carve out our place in the world, or at least a small slice of it.

Our wedding night had been tender, cautious—both of us fumbling through our first time with a mixture of nervousness and wonder. When it was over, we'd held each other in the darkness of the hotel room, her head on my chest, both of us laughing softly at how different reality was from expectation.

"Was it... okay?" I'd asked, my voice uncertain.

She'd kissed my jaw, her fingers tracing circles on my skin. "It was perfect," she'd whispered. "It was us."

And it had been. Gentle, loving, ours. I'd fallen asleep that night feeling like the luckiest man alive, her body warm against mine, her breathing soft and even.

After graduation, we left our small college town for a vibrant city, chasing entry-level jobs that offered promise but modest pay. I landed a tech support role, while Meagan found work as a preschool teacher; her gentle demeanor and patience were a perfect fit for guiding young children. We settled into a modest apartment complex, a weathered brick building in a neighborhood where sirens often drowned out the morning birds. It wasn't the safest area—graffiti marked the nearby corner store, and streetlights flickered unreliably—but it was equidistant from my office and Meagan's preschool, and the rent fit our tight budget, leaving just enough for essentials and the occasional dinner out.

Our apartment was small but cozy, with worn beige carpet and walls so thin they seemed to mock the idea of privacy. At night, we'd lie in bed, the sounds of our neighbors' lives seeping through the plaster. Heated arguments, thumping music, and the clatter of bottles tossed into bins became our nightly soundtrack. Meagan would sigh, her brow creasing, and murmur about saving for a house, a place where we could find peace and quiet.

"Someday," I'd promise, stroking her hair. "We'll have our own place, with thick walls and a backyard."

She'd smile, but her eyes would drift to the bedroom wall, where the sounds seemed loudest, and I could see the worry there.

The most persistent disturbance came from the apartment next door, where our neighbor Derrick lived. I met him first in the hallway, hauling a box of our belongings up the groaning stairs. He was a towering man, at least a head taller than my 5'11", with a muscular build that spoke of strength earned through effort or necessity. His skin was a deep brown, his arms thick with muscle, though his midsection carried a solid paunch. His face bore marks of a rough past—a crooked nose, a scar cutting through one eyebrow, and another faint line across his cheek. He offered a firm handshake and a low, "Name's Derrick. Welcome to the chaos," before retreating to his unit.

There was an undeniable intensity to Derrick, not because of his race but his sheer presence. He moved with a quiet confidence, his dark eyes sharp and observant. Yet he was courteous, nodding at us in the parking lot or flashing a quick smile in passing.

Meagan, however, seemed unsettled by him. She'd grip my arm tighter when he was near, her greetings brief and her eyes fixed downward. "He looks at me... oddly," she confided one evening as we tidied our tiny kitchen after dinner. "Like he's seeing right through me."

I dismissed it, attributing it to her nerves. "You're beautiful, Meagan. Guys are bound to notice. It's nothing." But I couldn't ignore the way Derrick's gaze lingered on her, or the slight smirk he'd shoot my way, as if we shared some private jest. It stirred something uneasy in me, though I couldn't pinpoint why.

The real disruption came at night, when Derrick's apartment sprang to life. Two or three times a week, we'd hear a woman's voice through the shared bedroom wall—moans, gasps, and cries that painted vivid scenes in the dark. The headboard would thud rhythmically, sometimes so forcefully I wondered if it would breach the drywall. The women were unrestrained; their pleas and exclamations raw and unfiltered. "Oh, God, yes!" one would cry, or "Don't stop, please!" another would beg, their voices carrying an intensity that felt both intrusive and inescapable.

Meagan would stiffen beside me, pulling the blanket higher, her lips tightening into a thin line. "It's disgusting," she'd mutter, her cheeks flushed with irritation. "How are we supposed to sleep with that racket?"

I'd nod, agreeing it was disruptive, but inwardly I was torn. The sounds sparked something in me—a heat I couldn't confess to Meagan. Our own lovemaking was tender but cautious, a quiet dance of discovery, mindful of the thin walls. Meagan would cover her mouth if a moan slipped out, her eyes wide with embarrassment. I cherished her for it, but Derrick's escapades stirred thoughts of passion unbridled, of what it might mean to let go completely.

One night, as the headboard pounded and a woman's cries hit a fevered crescendo, Meagan rolled over, her back to me. "I can't wait to get out of this place," she whispered, her voice sharp with frustration.

I murmured agreement, stroking her hair, but my mind wandered, caught in the rhythm of the sounds next door. I didn't tell her how my pulse raced, how I lay awake long after she'd drifted off, imagining the scenes unfolding just beyond the wall.

Weeks passed, and the pattern persisted. Derrick's late-night visitors became as regular as the city's traffic. Meagan's complaints grew sharper, her patience wearing thin. I tried to be the supportive husband, promising better days, but part of me was captivated by the contrast between our lives and his. Derrick was an enigma—a solitary man with a revolving door of partners, living boldly in a world so unlike ours. And though I'd never admit it to Meagan, I found myself listening more intently, drawn to the raw energy that bled through the walls, wondering what it revealed about us, about me.

Chapter 2: Meagan's Perspective

The sirens woke me again, their wail cutting through the pre-dawn darkness like a knife. I lay still, Mark's arm heavy across my waist, his breathing deep and even. He could sleep through anything—a gift I envied. My eyes tracked the crack in the ceiling, illuminated by the flickering streetlight outside our window, and I listened to the city settling back into its restless quiet.

Three months in this apartment, and I still wasn't used to it.

Mark stirred beside me, his hand unconsciously tightening on my hip, and I felt the familiar rush of warmth. I loved him. God, I loved him so much it sometimes scared me. He was good, steady, safe—everything my father had raised me to want in a husband. Our wedding night had been awkward and sweet, his nervous laughter when he fumbled with my bra strap, the way he'd kissed my forehead after and whispered, "I love you." It was supposed to be perfect, and it was, in its own way.

But lying here now, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

The thought made me sick with guilt. What kind of wife thinks that? We'd waited, done everything right, saved ourselves for each other like we'd been taught. Our lovemaking was gentle, considerate—Mark always asked if I was okay, if he was hurting me. I appreciated it, truly. But sometimes, when he finished and rolled beside me with that satisfied sigh, I'd stare at the wall and wonder why I felt so... incomplete.

A low thump from next door interrupted my thoughts, followed by a woman's breathy laugh. My stomach tightened. Not again.

"Oh, fuck, yes!" The voice was clear, shameless, loud enough that I could picture her—head thrown back, hands gripping the headboard. The bed started its rhythmic creak, that now-familiar soundtrack that made my cheeks burn even in the darkness.

Mark shifted but didn't wake. How could he sleep through this?

I should have been disgusted. I was disgusted. The sheer audacity of Derrick and his parade of women, the complete lack of consideration for the neighbors, the way they rutted like animals with no thought for decency—it was everything my upbringing had taught me to despise.

But my body didn't seem to care what I'd been taught.

Heat pooled low in my belly as the sounds intensified. The woman's moans climbed higher, more desperate, punctuated by a deep male voice I recognized as Derrick's—though I couldn't make out the words, just the commanding tone. My thighs pressed together involuntarily, and I hated myself for it.

Stop it. This is wrong. You're a married woman lying next to your husband, getting turned on by the neighbor's sex life like some kind of pervert.

But I couldn't stop listening. The woman was begging now, her voice raw with need, and I found myself imagining what it would feel like to be that uninhibited, that free. To not care who heard, to just... let go.

Mark and I had made love three nights ago—quiet, careful, his hand over my mouth when I gasped too loud. "Shhh, the walls," he'd whispered, and I'd nodded, biting my lip to stay silent. It had been nice. Sweet. Perfectly adequate.

The word echoed in my head, damning. Adequate.

The headboard slammed harder against our shared wall, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out. But in the darkness, my traitorous mind conjured images—Derrick's muscular frame, the way he'd looked at me in the hallway yesterday, his gaze traveling slowly from my face down to my chest before he'd smirked and nodded. Like he knew something I didn't.

"Don't stop, oh God, don't stop!" The woman's voice peaked, breaking into a series of sharp cries that made my breath catch.

My hand slipped between my legs before I could stop it, fingers pressing against the cotton of my panties. I was wet. Soaked, actually. Shame flooded through me even as my hips rolled slightly into my own touch.

What is wrong with you?

Mark's breathing changed, and I froze, my hand jerking away as if I'd been burned. Had he woken up? Was he listening too? But no—his arm relaxed, his breathing evening out again. Still asleep.

Thank God.

The sounds next door finally tapered off, replaced by low murmuring and a woman's satisfied laugh. I lay rigid in the darkness, my heart pounding, my body still humming with unsatisfied arousal. Mark shifted, pulling me closer in his sleep, and I forced myself to relax against him, guilt settling over me like a heavy blanket.

I loved my husband. I did. This was just... adjustment. New marriage jitters. The stress of the move, the new jobs, the thin walls. Once we saved enough to get out of this place, everything would go back to normal. We'd have our own house with proper insulation, and I'd stop having these ridiculous, shameful reactions to our neighbor's sex life.

But as I finally drifted toward sleep, Derrick's smirk flashed behind my eyelids, and my body gave a traitorous little shiver.

Chapter 3: Echoes of Curiosity

It had been three months since we moved into the apartment, and life had settled into a predictable rhythm. Meagan left early each morning for her job at the preschool, her warm smile and gentle nature perfectly suited to the lively four-year-olds she taught. I'd head to the tech support office, spending my days untangling software issues for frustrated clients. We'd reconvene in the evening, sharing stories over dinner—hers filled with finger paintings and playground adventures, mine with tales of endless reboots and irate customers.

Despite the challenges of our new life, we were making it work. But the thin walls remained a constant reminder that privacy was a luxury we couldn't afford. Most nights, we could hear the muffled sounds of our neighbors—arguments, laughter, the occasional thump of a dropped object. But it was Derrick's apartment that proved the most disruptive.

Friday night arrived, and with it, the promise of a quiet weekend. Meagan and I had planned to watch a movie and maybe order takeout, a small indulgence to celebrate surviving another week. We curled up on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between us, the glow of the TV casting shadows on the walls.

Halfway through the movie, it started. A low moan, followed by a rhythmic creaking. Meagan stiffened beside me, her eyes darting to the wall we shared with Derrick's bedroom.

"Not again," she muttered, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume.

But the sounds only grew louder, more insistent. The woman's voice rose in pitch, her cries unmistakable. The headboard began to thump against the wall, a steady beat that drowned out the movie's dialogue.

Meagan's face flushed with anger. She paused the movie and turned to me, her green eyes flashing. "This is ridiculous. How are we supposed to live like this?"

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "It's an old building. Thin walls. What can we do?"

"We can ask him to keep it down," she said, her voice sharp. "Or maybe report him to the landlord."

I hesitated. The thought of confronting Derrick made my stomach churn. He was a big guy, and though he'd been friendly enough, there was an edge to him that I didn't want to test.

"Let's just try to ignore it," I suggested. "Maybe it'll stop soon."

But it didn't. If anything, the noise intensified. The woman's moans turned into screams, and the headboard's pounding became almost violent.

Meagan threw off the blanket and stood up, her hands clenched into fists. "I can't take this anymore. I'm going to say something."

"Wait," I said, grabbing her arm. "Let me handle it."

She looked at me, her expression a mix of surprise and relief. "You will?"

I nodded, though my heart was racing. "Yeah. I'll talk to him tomorrow. It's late now."

Meagan seemed to consider this, then sighed. "Fine. But if it happens again, I'm calling the landlord."

We tried to resume the movie, but the mood was ruined. Eventually, we gave up and went to bed, the sounds from next door still echoing through the walls.

That night, Meagan tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I lay beside her, pretending to be asleep, but my mind was alert, attuned to every noise.

Around 2 a.m., the activity next door finally ceased. There was a brief silence, then the sound of voices—Derrick's low rumble and the woman's softer tones.

Curiosity got the better of me. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the wall, pressing my ear against it.

"...incredible," the woman murmured, her voice husky with satisfaction. "I've never been with anyone so... well-endowed. It's like you fill me completely."

Derrick's deep chuckle rumbled through the wall. "I'm glad I could satisfy you."

"It's not just your size," she continued, her tone turning wistful. "My husband... he's nothing like you. With him, it's quick and perfunctory. But you... you take your time, make me feel desired."

There was a moment of silence before Derrick responded, his voice low and smooth. "Everyone deserves to feel wanted. I'm happy to provide that."

The woman sighed contentedly. "You've certainly done that. I don't think I've ever come so hard in my life. My husband could never..."

Her voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

I pulled away from the wall, my mind racing. The woman's words echoed in my head: "My husband could never..." It wasn't just the physical aspect; it was the emotional connection, the way Derrick made her feel seen and desired.

But more than that, I was struck by the revelation that she was married. A married woman, seeking something outside her marriage. It made me wonder about the other women Derrick brought home. Were they all like her? Unfulfilled, looking for something more?

A strange mix of emotions washed over me. There was a twinge of envy, certainly, but also an intense curiosity. Who were these women? What drew them to Derrick?

The fact that at least one of them was married added another layer to my fascination. Was she seeking something her husband couldn't provide? Was Derrick fulfilling a need that her marriage lacked?

I found myself wondering about the dynamics of their relationship. Did her husband know? Was this a secret affair, or was it something they had agreed upon?

These questions swirled in my mind, keeping me awake long after the sounds from next door had ceased. I glanced at Meagan, sleeping peacefully beside me, and wondered if she ever felt the same curiosity. Or if, perhaps, she harbored her own secrets.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine, but I pushed it aside. Meagan was faithful; I was sure of that. Still, the seed of curiosity had been planted, and I knew it would be difficult to ignore.

Chapter 4: Unsettled

The office went dark that afternoon, the kind of sudden blackout that stops everything cold. The hum of computers died, replaced by a chorus of groans from my coworkers. My boss, rubbing his temples, looked up from his desk and muttered, "Mark, you may as well leave early today until the power's back on. No sense sticking around in this gloom."

I didn't need convincing. Meagan wouldn't be home from the preschool for hours, and I figured I'd enjoy some rare quiet in our cramped apartment. I grabbed my stuff and left, the city outside feeling oddly still without its usual electric buzz.

But when I reached our floor, that hope for peace evaporated. A steady creak leaked through the walls, paired with soft, breathy gasps. I paused, key halfway to the lock. It wasn't even one o'clock, and Derrick was already at it. I'd pegged him for a night owl with his endless stream of women, but apparently, he didn't punch a clock.

I slipped inside, shutting the door quietly, and stood there, rooted. The sounds grew clearer: a woman's moans, sharp and desperate, cutting through the thin divide. My heart kicked up a notch. I could've flipped on the radio, drowned it out, but instead, I drifted to the bedroom. I pressed my ear against the wall, the plaster cool against my skin, and listened.

"Oh, Derrick," she gasped, voice thick with want. "You're so big... my husband's got nothing on you."

Derrick's low chuckle rolled back. "Keep talking."

"He's useless," she said, panting. "You're everything he isn't. Don't stop, please."

Another married one. That should've turned my stomach, but instead, a weird heat sparked in me. The bed thudded louder, her cries climbing, and my breath hitched. "Yes, right there—don't stop!"

My hand moved before I could think, fumbling with my jeans. I gripped myself, matching their rhythm, every sound dragging me in deeper. "You're the best," she moaned. "I need this."

It hit me fast, a rush I couldn't hold back. I finished with a stifled groan, slumping against the wall as her voice lingered in my head. The sounds tapered off, and I scrambled to clean up, guilt already creeping in. Meagan would be home soon, expecting me to be the same guy she left this morning. I'd bury this and act like it never happened. But sitting there, catching my breath, I knew something had shifted—and these walls were too damn thin to keep it contained.

Chapter 5: A Neighborly Chat

It was a lazy Saturday morning, and Meagan had gone out to run errands, leaving me alone in the apartment. I decided it was a good time to take out the trash, a chore I'd been neglecting. As I stepped into the hallway with the garbage bag, I saw Derrick coming up the stairs. He was dressed in workout clothes, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, and his skin glistened with sweat.

"Morning, Mark," he greeted me with a nod.

"Hey, Derrick," I replied, trying to sound casual despite the flutter in my stomach.

"Getting rid of the evidence?" he joked, glancing at the trash bag.

"Something like that," I said with a forced chuckle.

As I turned to head to the dumpster, I hesitated. The memory of the other day's events still lingered—the sounds through the wall, the guilt, the curiosity. Maybe now was the time to address the noise.

"Uh, Derrick," I began, clearing my throat, "I wanted to mention something."

He stopped and turned to face me, his expression open. "What's up?"

"It's just... the walls here are really thin, and sometimes at night, it's hard to sleep with all the... activity."

Derrick's face remained neutral, but I thought I saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Oh, yeah, I get it. Sorry about that. I'll try to keep it down."

I nodded, relieved he didn't take offense. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

"No problem," he said, then added with a grin, "You know how it is, sometimes things get a bit... passionate."

My cheeks warmed, and I mumbled, "Yeah, I suppose."

There was a brief, awkward silence, and then Derrick gestured towards his door. "Hey, why don't you come in for a beer? We can chat, get to know each other better since we're neighbors."

I was caught off guard. Part of me wanted to retreat to the safety of my own space, but another part was intrigued. Who was this guy, really? Maybe talking to him would make him less of a mystery.

"Uh, sure, why not," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

I followed him into his apartment, which was surprisingly tidy. A black leather couch sat against one wall, facing a large flat-screen TV. In the corner, there was a set of dumbbells and a weight bench. A framed photo on the wall showed Derrick with a group of friends, all laughing and holding up beer bottles at what looked like a barbecue.

"Make yourself comfortable," Derrick said, heading to the kitchen. "I'll grab us some beers."

I sat on the couch, taking in the space. The air smelled faintly of cologne and something earthy, maybe incense. A bookshelf caught my eye, lined with novels and self-help books—The Alchemist, The Power of Now—titles I wouldn't have pegged him for.

He returned with two cold bottles and handed one to me. "Cheers," he said, clinking his bottle against mine.

"Cheers," I echoed, taking a sip. The beer was crisp and cool.

"So, how long have you and Meagan been married?" Derrick asked, settling into an armchair across from me.

"Almost two years," I answered. "We got married right after college."

"That's great," he said, nodding. "You two seem happy together."

"We are," I said, though my mind flickered to the doubts I'd been wrestling with lately.

"Me, I prefer to keep things casual," Derrick said, leaning back. "No strings attached, just enjoying life."

I nodded, unsure what to say. His world felt so far from mine.

"Life's too short to be tied down," he went on, a hint of philosophy in his tone. "I like to make sure I have a good time, and that my partners do too."

There was a confidence in his voice I couldn't help but admire, even if it unsettled me. "Must be nice," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

"It is," he agreed, smiling. "But it's not for everyone. Some people need that stability, the commitment. I respect that."

"Yeah," I said, sipping my beer to fill the pause.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and he glanced at it. "Excuse me, I need to take this."

He stood and stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. I took the chance to look around more. The place was clean, no signs of the chaos I'd imagined—no stray lingerie or lipstick stains, just a regular guy's apartment.

The bookshelf nagged at me. Those books suggested a side of Derrick I hadn't expected, something deeper than the playboy I'd built up in my head.

He came back a few minutes later, pocketing his phone. "Sorry about that. Work stuff."

"What do you do?" I asked, genuinely curious now.

"I'm an independent businessman," he said. "Do some modeling on the side."

"Oh, cool," I said. "That explains the muscles."

He laughed, a deep, easy sound. "Yeah, side job requires me to workout. Plus, I play basketball on weekends with some buddies."

"Sounds fun," I said. "I'm more of a runner myself."

"Running's good too," he said. "Keeps you fit."

We talked a bit longer about work and hobbies. He was easy to talk to, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. Maybe I'd misjudged him.

As I finished my beer, I decided it was time to go. "Well, I should get back. Meagan will be home soon."

"Sure thing," Derrick said, standing. "Hey, if you and Meagan ever want to hang out, let me know. We could grill or something."

"That sounds good," I said, though I wasn't sure how Meagan would take it.

Back in my apartment, I sank onto the couch, replaying our conversation. Derrick was more complex than I'd thought—friendly, sharp, even likable. But I couldn't shake what I knew about him: the women, the sounds, the married ones looking for something they couldn't find at home. It gnawed at me, especially after what I'd done the other night.

Should I tell Meagan I'd been over there? Probably not. She might not get it, might think I was cozying up to him.

As I sat there, I heard his door close next door, followed by footsteps and a woman's laughter. My stomach twisted. He was at it again.

But this time, it wasn't just annoyance I felt. There was curiosity, maybe even a flicker of envy, mixed with something I couldn't pin down.

When Meagan got back, arms full of grocery bags, I jumped up to help.

"How was your morning?" she asked, setting the bags on the counter.

"Quiet," I said. "Took out the trash and just relaxed."

"That's good," she said, smiling. "I got us some steaks for dinner. They were on offer."

"Sounds perfect," I replied, though my mind was elsewhere.

As we prepped dinner together, I tried to focus on her, on us. But my curiosity about Derrick's life kept pulling me away.

Chapter 6: Meagan - The Breaking Point

I stood in the preschool break room, phone pressed to my ear, listening to Mark explain about his promotion. Night shift supervisor. More money. A path to management.

"It's a big opportunity," he was saying, his voice bright with excitement. "We could finally start saving for a real house, babe. Get out of that apartment."

My chest tightened. Night shift. The words echoed in my head, drowning out whatever else he was saying.

"When would you start?" I asked, my voice steady despite the panic clawing up my throat.

"Next week. I know the hours are rough, but think about what it means for us. For our future."

Our future. Right. Our future where I'd be alone every night in that apartment with paper-thin walls, listening to Derrick and his parade of women while my husband was safely tucked away at an office across town.

"Meagan? You there?"

"Yeah," I said quickly. "I'm... that's great, Mark. Really great."

"You don't sound sure."

I closed my eyes, leaning against the break room counter. How could I explain this to him? That the thought of being alone at night made my skin crawl, that I'd been having dreams about our neighbor, that sometimes when Mark was at work I'd stand in our bedroom with my ear pressed to the wall, listening to sounds that made my body respond in ways I didn't understand?

"I'm just worried about the schedule change," I said, which was true enough. "We barely see each other as it is."

"I know. But it's temporary, just until something opens up on days. A year, maybe two at most. And the money will make such a difference."

A year. Two years. Alone at night while Derrick—

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thought. "Can I think about it?"

There was a pause. "It's not really up for discussion, babe. I already accepted. I thought you'd be happy."

Of course he'd already accepted. Because Mark was responsible, practical, thinking about our future and saving money and doing all the right things. While I stood here in a preschool break room, terrified of being left alone at night for reasons I couldn't even admit to myself.

"I am happy," I lied. "You just caught me off guard. We'll talk more when you get home, okay?"

After we hung up, I stood there for a long moment, staring at my phone. Through the doorway, I could hear the children playing, their laughter high and innocent. I should go back out there, supervise snack time, wipe noses, be the gentle, patient teacher everyone thought I was.

Instead, I locked the bathroom door and sat on the toilet lid, head in my hands.

This is fine, I told myself. It's just a job change. You're a grown woman. You can handle being alone at night.

But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't being alone that scared me. It was what I might do with that freedom. What I might allow myself to want.

That evening, I made chicken and salad, Mark's favorite. He came through the door with a bouquet of grocery store flowers and that boyish grin that had made me fall in love with him in the first place.

"For my future night-shift supervisor's wife," he said, kissing my cheek.

I forced a smile, taking the flowers. "They're beautiful."

Over dinner, he laid it all out—the pay increase, the benefits, how quickly we could save for a down payment if we were careful. He painted a picture of us in a real house with a yard and thick walls and neighbors we'd never hear having sex at two in the morning.

"It's what we've been working toward," he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. "I know it's not ideal, but it's a sacrifice worth making. For us."

I looked at his face—earnest, hopeful, completely unaware of the war raging inside me. He thought this was about missing him, about the loneliness of separate schedules. He had no idea that every night he'd be gone, I'd be lying in our bed, listening to Derrick through the wall, my body responding in ways that made me hate myself.

"What if something happens?" I heard myself say.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. An emergency. You being gone all night, me here alone..."

"Babe, you'll be fine. It's a locked door. And Derrick's right next door if you ever need anything."

My stomach flipped at his name. "Derrick."

"Yeah, I actually had a beer with him last weekend. He's a good guy, offered to keep an eye out if we ever need anything."

I stared at him. "You had a beer with Derrick?"

"Just for like an hour while you were out. He seems decent, you know? Not as intimidating as you thought."

Not as intimidating. Right. Just the man whose sexual prowess kept me awake at night, whose voice through the wall made me wet, whose smile in the hallway made my pulse race. Not intimidating at all.

"I don't want to be here alone at night, Mark." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "Not here. With... with him right next door."

"He's just a guy, Meagan." Mark squeezed my hand. "Nothing is going to happen."

That's what I'm afraid of, I thought. Not that something would happen, but that I'd make something happen. That one night, listening to him fuck another woman, I'd do more than just press my ear to the wall. That I'd knock on his door. That I'd—

"Meagan?"

I blinked, realizing Mark was staring at me. "Sorry. Just... processing."

"I know it's a lot," he said, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. "But we'll get through it together. And think—a year from now, we could be house hunting. Real bedrooms, a kitchen bigger than a closet, maybe even a guest room for when your parents visit."

A guest room. How quaint. How normal. How utterly far away from the thoughts swirling in my head.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "If you really think it's best for us."

His whole face lit up. "Really? You mean it?"

"Yeah," I managed a smile. "We're a team, right? We make sacrifices for each other."

He stood, coming around the table to pull me into a hug. I pressed my face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne and the detergent I used on his work shirts. This was my husband. My good, kind, hardworking husband who loved me and wanted to build a life with me.

So why did I feel like I was standing at the edge of a cliff?

That night, after Mark fell asleep, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet for once—no sounds from next door, no sirens outside. Just the steady rhythm of Mark's breathing and the occasional creak of the building settling.

In a week, he'd be gone all night. Every night. And I'd be here, alone in the dark, with nothing but thin walls between me and—

Stop it, I told myself firmly. You're not going to do anything. You love Mark. This is just... adjustment. New marriage stuff. It'll pass.

But even as I thought it, my hand drifted down my body, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my panties. I was already wet, had been since dinner, since the moment Mark said Derrick's name.

I touched myself quietly, careful not to wake Mark, my mind conjuring images I had no right to imagine. Derrick's muscular frame. His confident smile. The way his eyes had traveled over me in the hallway, like he could see right through my modest clothes to the skin beneath.

The sounds I'd heard through the wall—the woman's desperate moans, Derrick's low commands, the raw, primal quality of their fucking that was nothing like the gentle, considerate sex Mark and I had.

I came quickly, biting my lip to stay silent, shame flooding through me even as pleasure pulsed through my body. Beside me, Mark slept on, oblivious.

I pulled my hand away and rolled onto my side, curling into a ball. What's wrong with me?

But I knew the answer, had known it for weeks. I was a good girl, a pastor's daughter, a judge's daughter, raised to be modest and pure and faithful. I'd saved myself for marriage, done everything right, married a good man who loved me.

And it wasn't enough.

The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. Because if I admitted that—if I let myself acknowledge that my careful, considerate sex life with Mark left me hungry for something more—what did that make me?

A week. I had one week before Mark started his new schedule. One week to get my head on straight, to remember my vows, to be the wife I was supposed to be.

One week before I'd be alone every night with nothing but thin walls and my own traitorous desires for company.

I pressed my face into the pillow and prayed for strength I wasn't sure I wanted.

Chapter 7: The Night Shift Begins

The first week of the night shift was hell for both of us. I'd leave at nine-thirty, kissing a tense, wide-eyed Meagan goodbye at the door. At work, I'd stare at security monitors, my mind a thousand miles away, picturing her in our apartment. My phone became a lifeline.

Her texts would start around eleven, just as the building settled into its nightly rhythm.

"He has someone over tonight," one read. "It's already starting."

An hour later: "It's so much louder when I'm alone. I have the TV on, but I can still hear everything."

And then, close to two in the morning: "She's screaming, Mark. It sounds like he's hurting her. I know he's not, but it sounds that way. My heart is racing. I can't sleep."

I'd try to soothe her with texts, telling her to put in headphones, to think about the house we were going to buy. But my words felt useless against the visceral reality of her fear. I felt a gnawing guilt, but it was threaded with that same persistent excitement. The thought of her alone, listening to Derrick, was a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of my days, a secret I kept even from myself as I counted the hours until I could go home and hear her complain about what new sounds had disturbed her night.

By Thursday of that first week, her texts had taken on a different tone:

"I can't do this anymore. I tried to sleep, but they've been at it for two hours. TWO HOURS, Mark."

Then: "She just said something about her husband. Another married one. God, how many are there?"

And finally: "I hate this. I hate him. I hate these walls. When are you coming home?"

I left work at six a.m., exhausted and wired, and found her in the kitchen making coffee with shaking hands. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her hair unwashed, still in the t-shirt she'd slept in.

"Hey," I said softly, moving to hug her.

She stiffened in my arms. "Don't. I haven't showered. I probably smell like I've been up all night because I have."

"Babe—"

"He was with someone until four, Mark. Four in the morning. On a Wednesday." Her voice cracked. "How is that normal? How do we live like this?"

I guided her to the couch, sitting beside her. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard."

"Hard?" she laughed, but it came out bitter. "Hard is when the dishwasher breaks or we can't afford takeout. This is... I don't even know what this is. Torture?"

"It's temporary. The money—"

"I don't care about the money!" She turned to face me, and I saw something in her eyes I couldn't quite identify. Anger, yes, but something else beneath it. Something wild. "I care about being able to sleep in my own bed without listening to our neighbor fuck half the city."

The words hung between us, sharper than anything she'd said before. Meagan didn't curse, not usually. It was one of the things I'd loved about her—her gentle propriety, her carefully chosen words.

"I'll talk to him again," I offered weakly.

"And say what? 'Excuse me, could you please fuck your apparently endless supply of married women more quietly?'" She stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "It won't help. These walls are too thin. There's no fixing it unless we move, and we can't afford that for at least a year."

She was right, and we both knew it. The promotion had come with a probation period—I couldn't leave for at least twelve months without losing the pay increase.

"Maybe you could stay at your friend Sarah's place some nights?" I suggested. "Just to get a break?"

She turned to look at me, her expression unreadable. "Run away, you mean. Hide at Sarah's while you're at work and Derrick is... doing whatever he does."

"Just until we can move. Just to help you sleep."

She was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window at the gray morning light. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost resigned. "Maybe. Sarah did say I could crash anytime."

I stood and crossed to her, wrapping my arms around her from behind. She leaned back against me, and I felt some of the tension leave her body.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into her hair. "I know this isn't what you signed up for."

"No," she agreed quietly. "It's not."

We stood like that for a while, watching the city wake up beyond our window. I didn't tell her that part of me—a shameful, dark part I didn't want to examine—was fascinated by her distress, by the vivid pictures her texts painted of Derrick's nights. I didn't tell her that sometimes at work, reading her messages, I'd get hard imagining the scenes she described.

I just held her and pretended I was a better husband than I was turning out to be.

Chapter 8: Meagan - The First Night Alone

Sarah's apartment smelled like vanilla candles and the lavender spray she used on everything. It was quiet—blessedly, perfectly quiet. No sirens, no thumping bass from downstairs, no headboard slamming against paper-thin walls.

"You can stay as long as you need," Sarah said, fluffing the pillows on her guest bed. "Seriously, Meagan. I hate thinking of you stressed out in that place."

I hugged her, grateful. "Just tonight. Mark's working, and I just... I need one good night's sleep."

"Girl, I get it. Thin walls are the worst." She paused. "Is it really as bad as you said?"

I thought about how to answer. Bad? Yes. But was that the right word for something that kept me awake not just from the noise, but from the heat that spread through my body every time I heard Derrick's voice through the wall?

"It's bad," I said simply.

After Sarah went to bed, I lay in her guest room staring at the ceiling. It was past midnight—the time when Derrick's apartment usually came alive. But here, there was nothing. Just blessed silence.

I should have been relieved. Grateful. Instead, I felt... restless.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mark: "How's Sarah's? Getting some rest?"

"Yeah. It's quiet."

"Good. Love you. Sleep well."

"Love you too."

I set the phone on the nightstand and closed my eyes, willing sleep to come. But my body was used to the rhythm now—used to lying awake listening, used to the arousal that came with those sounds, used to touching myself quietly while Mark slept beside me, oblivious.

Here in Sarah's guest room, in the silence I'd been craving, I felt oddly empty.

This is what you wanted, I reminded myself. Peace. Quiet. A chance to sleep without being disturbed.

But as I drifted off, my dreams were full of sounds—moans and gasps and a deep male voice commanding, praising, taking. I woke twice, confused about where I was, my hand between my legs and my heart racing.

The second time, I checked my phone: 3:47 a.m. Back at our apartment, if Derrick had company, they'd probably still be at it. The thought made my stomach clench with something that definitely wasn't disgust.

I grabbed my phone and opened a text to Mark, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What would I say? I can't sleep at Sarah's because I'm too used to getting off listening to our neighbor fuck other women?

Instead, I typed: "Can't sleep. Miss you."

His response came surprisingly quick: "Miss you too. Almost done with shift. Home soon."

Home. Our apartment with its thin walls and cheap carpet and the man next door whose sex life had somehow become the focal point of mine.

I should have stayed at Sarah's, should have spent every night there until Mark switched back to days or we saved enough to move. It would have been the smart thing, the safe thing.

But as I lay there in the dark, I knew with a sick certainty that I wouldn't. I'd go home. I'd go back to those thin walls and those sounds and the nightly torture of lying alone knowing what was happening just feet away.

Because part of me—a part growing larger and harder to ignore—didn't want the silence.

Part of me wanted to hear.

Chapter 9: The Discovery

Seven weeks into the night shift, my life was a tangle of exhaustion, guilt, and an obsession I couldn't escape. Meagan and I were unraveling, our schedules reducing us to hurried kisses and tired texts. Her escapes to Sarah's apartment, two or three nights a week to avoid Derrick's relentless noise, left me alone in our hollow apartment, her absence a quiet wound. But secretly, her absence fed my dark ritual—listening to the sounds next door, a pull I couldn't resist. That mysterious woman's voice from that Tuesday night weeks ago, raw and intoxicating, had burrowed into my mind, her moans a siren's call I couldn't silence. Derrick's promise to make her his "Thursday night thing" lit a fire in me, and I was counting the hours to hear her again.

It was a Tuesday night, just past ten, when I realized I'd messed up. I was at work, slogging through a report due at dawn, when it hit me: the data I needed was in a folder on our kitchen counter. My boss was riding me hard for this one, and with the promotion—and its promise of extra pay to escape this dump—on the line, I couldn't afford to fail. I grabbed my keys, told my coworker I'd be back in an hour, and headed out.

The drive home was a blur, my mind on the report. I parked and climbed the stairs, but as I reached our floor, a familiar sound stopped me dead—moans, raw and intoxicating, spilling from Derrick's apartment. My pulse quickened. He was at it again. I unlocked our door as quietly as I could.

The apartment was dark. I crept to the kitchen, grabbed the folder, but the sounds next door grew louder—a woman's gasps, rich and desperate, paired with the furious creak of a bed. There was something different about her voice tonight, something more erotic, more alive. My breath caught, heat coiling in my gut.

I should've left, but my feet carried me to the bedroom, drawn by that magnetic pull. I pressed my ear to the wall, and let the sounds envelop me. The woman's moans were electric. "Oh, God, yes!" she cried. "So good, don't stop!"

Derrick's voice rumbled through, commanding. "You love this, don't you? Tell me how it feels."

"It's so fucking good," she gasped, breathless. "You're so deep... I can't handle it."

"Handle it," Derrick growled. "Take every inch. Let me hear you beg."

"Please," she moaned, her voice breaking. "Fuck me harder, please!"

My jeans tightened, my heart pounding. Her moans were unlike anything I'd heard before—wilder, dripping with a passion that felt almost personal. My hand moved to my zipper, hesitating only a moment before unzipping. I stroked myself in sync with the bed's rhythm, the headboard slamming like a drum, her cries igniting a fire in my veins.

"Yes, right there, harder!"

The heat overwhelmed me. I came hard, my release sharp and dizzying, leaving me slumped against the wall, panting. Guilt surged, but it was drowned by the intensity—this woman's voice had hooked me deeper than any before.

As the sounds softened, Derrick's voice came again, clear and deliberate. "Damn, girl, that was unreal. You're so good, I'm making you my Thursday night thing. Same time next week."

The woman laughed, soft and breathless. "You're trouble. But I'll be here."

My breath caught. Thursday night thing. The words burned into me, sparking a new obsession. I had to hear her again, had to be here next Thursday. The thought consumed me, drowning out the guilt, the report, everything.

I grabbed the folder and slipped out, my mind racing as I drove back to work. By the time I got home at six a.m., I was already scheming how to get back here next Thursday, claiming another forgotten file or quick break. I had to hear her again.

But this Thursday was different. When I came home that morning, something felt off immediately.

Meagan was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. She wasn't dressed for work yet—still in her pajamas at 6:30 a.m., her blonde hair uncombed, eyes red-rimmed like she'd been crying.

"Hey," I said cautiously, setting down my bag. "You okay? Shouldn't you be getting ready?"

She looked up at me, and the expression on her face made my stomach drop. It wasn't anger exactly, or sadness. It was something harder to define—resignation mixed with something that looked almost like relief.

"I called in sick," she said quietly. "We need to talk."

My heart started pounding. "About what?"

She gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit down, Mark."

I sat, my mind racing through possibilities. Had she found something? Had someone seen me listening at the wall? Had Derrick said something?

"I know," she said simply.

"Know what?"

Her green eyes locked onto mine, and I saw it there—the certainty, the knowledge. "About her. About Thursday nights. About you."

The world seemed to tilt. "Meagan, I don't—"

"Don't lie to me." Her voice was firm but not loud. "Please, Mark. Don't make this worse by lying."

I opened my mouth, closed it. My mind scrambled for an explanation, a defense, but nothing came.

"I heard you," she continued, her voice softer now. "Last night. I wasn't at Sarah's. I was here, in bed, pretending to be asleep when you came home. I heard you in here, at the wall. I heard... everything."

Oh God. Oh fuck.

"Meagan—"

She held up a hand. "Let me finish. Please." She took a shaky breath. "I've known something was off for weeks. The way you'd ask about the noise, the way you'd get this look when I complained about Derrick. And last night, when you came home early, I woke up. I was going to surprise you, but then I heard..." She trailed off, her cheeks flushing. "I heard you listening. And I heard what you were doing."

Shame burned through me, hot and acidic. "I'm sorry. God, Meagan, I'm so sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. It just—it started as curiosity, and then—"

"It became something more," she finished quietly. "An obsession."

I couldn't meet her eyes. "Yes."

The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I waited for her to explode, to cry, to tell me to get out. Instead, when I finally looked up, her expression had shifted to something I couldn't quite read.

"The woman," she said. "The one from last night, the Thursday night one. Do you know who she is?"

I shook my head. "No. I've never seen her. I just... her voice."

"Her voice," Meagan repeated, almost to herself. She stood abruptly, walking to the window. "Mark, I need to tell you something. And you're going to hate me for it."

My stomach clenched. "What?"

She was quiet for a long moment, her back to me, shoulders tense. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"It's me."

The words didn't make sense at first. "What?"

She turned to face me, tears streaming down her cheeks. "The Thursday night woman. The one you've been listening to, fantasizing about. It's me, Mark. It's been me."

The apartment seemed to spin. "That's not... you were at Sarah's on Thursdays. You said—"

"I lied." The words came out in a rush. "I haven't been to Sarah's in three weeks. I've been next door. With Derrick. Every Thursday night."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The voice through the wall—those desperate moans, those filthy words—that was Meagan?

"You're lying," I said, but even as I said it, pieces were clicking into place. The way she'd been different lately. The flush in her cheeks some mornings. The way she'd stopped complaining about the noise as much.

"I'm not lying." She wiped at her tears. "It started five weeks ago. I went over there to tell him to keep it down, and he... we..." She couldn't finish the sentence.

"How many times?" My voice sounded strange, distant.

"Every Thursday for the past five weeks. And..." She swallowed hard. "Tuesday night too. Last night, before you came home."

Tuesday. Last night. The sounds I'd heard, the woman I'd gotten off to—

I lurched from the chair and barely made it to the bathroom before I vomited.

Chapter 10: The Confrontation

I knelt on the bathroom floor, forehead pressed against the cool tile, my stomach still heaving even though there was nothing left to bring up. Behind me, I heard Meagan's soft footsteps, then the sound of her sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

"Mark," she whispered. "Please say something."

I couldn't. My mind was a whirlwind of images I couldn't stop—Meagan on her knees, Derrick's hands in her hair, her voice crying out in pleasure I'd never been able to give her. The woman I'd fantasized about through the wall, the voice that had consumed me for weeks—it had been my wife the entire time.

"How long have you known?" she asked quietly. "That you were... listening?"

I sat back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "A few weeks. Since you started going to 'Sarah's." The bitterness in my voice was sharp enough to cut.

"And you never said anything."

"Neither did you."

The silence stretched between us, thick with betrayal and secrets. Finally, I forced myself to stand, to face her. She looked small sitting there on the tub's edge, her blonde hair messy, mascara smudged under her eyes. She looked vulnerable and guilty and somehow still so beautiful it made my chest ache.

"Tell me everything," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "From the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

She took a shaky breath and nodded.