Chapter 1 — Peephole

He’s late again today. Not even a single call—by now, it’s just expected.

Not that I’m waiting. Not really.

How welcoming could I possibly be to a husband who walks in reeking of some woman’s perfume?

It’s become normal for him to come home only when morning is already breaking.

My husband—he’s like someone who moonlights at a diner, booking a table for a month straight just to eat breakfast.

When people complain their husbands are like boarders, I can’t help but laugh bitterly.

I almost say it out loud: At least he’s better than a ghost. But I swallow the words before they rise too far.

Might give me indigestion… Ugh.

Still, the kids need a father. No point exhausting myself with fights or drama. I’ll just let things be.

And honestly? Wearing the label of “divorcee” stings my pride.

A thirty-five-year-old divorcee… Regardless of who’s at fault, people will paint me as difficult, unstable.

This country—women who can’t endure are seen as flawed.

The wall clock races toward the end of the day.

I should take a shower before midnight.

It’s strange, but ever since I was young, I’ve believed that at exactly twelve, a ghost waits inside the bathroom.

If I happen to be washing my hair then, I swear I can feel it behind me—red eyes fixed on my neck, creeping closer.

Even when brushing my teeth, the sensation of silent observation prickles down my spine.

Uuugh…

People scoff—You’re how old and still scared of ghosts? But fear is fear. What do they want me to do?

11:20 PM. I grab fresh clothes and head into the bathroom.

Back in the living room, I slip into just a thin sleeveless top over my panties.

There’s something refreshing about a midnight shower.

Across the way, the blinds are closed now.

Earlier, they were open—I thought maybe no one was home or they’d gone to bed. But clearly, someone came back while I was washing up.

I’ve known for a while now—someone across the courtyard has been watching me.

While sorting recyclables, I casually asked around. Turns out, three male college students live there.

Two seem to be away tonight. So I know exactly who it is.

Today’s mood is already sour. Might as well tease that student a little.

Truth is, when I walked past the bathroom earlier and saw their dark, empty window, I felt a pang of disappointment.

I’d even picked out something particularly daring to wear. Bought a provocative adult video just for this.

All that effort wasted? Sigh.

First, I position myself carefully—angled so the window across gets a clear view—and slowly begin applying lotion.

Tonight, I focus on posture—just enough exposed to tease, not enough to reveal.

When I reach my breasts, I deliberately massage in slow circles, drawing it out.

Are you watching properly? Heh.

The thought of being spied on sends a shiver through me—yet the thrill is undeniable.

Once the lotion sinks in, I turn on the video and lie back on the sofa—again, angled perfectly for his line of sight.

I won’t start anything strange right away. That’d feel fake. Better to wait, watch the clock.

But nerves make me restless. I shift constantly.

Nearly thirty minutes pass. Right on cue, the video shifts into its prelude—soft kisses, escalating touches.

Gentle lips meeting… tender caresses deepening…

I let the scene pull me into fantasy.

Soon, a sultry warmth spreads through my body. My breath grows uneven.

Knowing someone’s watching makes it more intense.

Matching the rhythm on screen, I let my hand glide over my skin, surrendering to sensation.

It feels different from touching myself alone in the bedroom.

Even gentle strokes send electric tingles crawling below.

Ah…

Every time I lift my hips, pleasure builds.

Ah… Ah… I’m going to wet myself.

Then—the screen shows a man gazing between a woman’s legs.

When I touch myself in the bedroom, I always do it in the dark. Never really looked.

What do I look like down there?

I sit up slightly, pull aside my panties, and peer underneath.

Curly black hair catches the light, glistening with faint sheen.

I part the curls with my fingers, gently pulling back the folds of flesh beside my petals.

From this angle, it’s hard to see clearly.

I’ll have to check again later—with my makeup mirror.

The tug of my fingers reignites sensation.

I slide my right hand under the fabric, stroking over my slit.

Ah…

For his eyes, I spread my legs a little wider.

As my movements grow bolder, every nerve in my body converges.

His gaze feels like heat pouring over me. My breath quickens, turning ragged.

Rocking my hips back and forth, I almost believe I’m truly making love. It feels incredible.

Focusing only on the most sensitive spots, rubbing without pause, the urge to pee grows stronger.

This is it. I can’t miss the moment.

I know too well—if I lose it, I’ll have to start all over.

I push harder—

Ah… Haa… Ah… Ah…

Huuuh…

Finally… finally… Ah… Warm fluid trickles between my thighs.

That hot, flowing sensation—

Haa…

Satisfaction surges through me.

I wonder how I’ll feel if I run into that student in broad daylight… Heh.

I stay like that for a long while, motionless, as the aftershocks of pleasure slowly fade.