The Blackout | NEON LIT

The elevator dies between floors.

One second I'm scrolling through my phone, half-reading work emails, and the next—nothing. The lights cut out. The hum of the machinery stops. Everything goes dark and silent in a way that cities never are.

I wait three seconds. Five. Ten.

Nothing comes back on.

"Shit."

I pry the doors open with my hands—thank god the elevator stalled close to the landing—and squeeze through the gap onto the fifth-floor stairwell. Emergency lights should be on. Backup generators should be humming. But there's nothing. Just absolute, complete darkness.

I pull out my phone. Two percent battery. Perfect.

The stairwell door opens somewhere above me.

"Hello?"

Her voice floats down through the dark. Warm. A little husky. Like honey left in the sun.

"Down here," I call up. "Fifth floor."

"Oh thank god." Footsteps on the stairs, careful and slow. "I was starting to think I was the only person in the building. What the hell happened?"

"No idea. Power just—"

I hear her foot miss a step. A sharp gasp. I reach out instinctively, and she falls right into me.

Soft.

That's my first thought. She's soft. My hands find her waist—wide, generous—and her body presses against mine as she catches her balance. Breasts against my chest, belly against my stomach. She's substantial. Warm. Her hair smells like vanilla.

"Sorry—sorry—" She pulls back, but in the pitch black, she doesn't go far. "I can't see a damn thing."

"Me neither." My hands are still on her waist. I let go. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just... wow." A breathless laugh. "Great first impression, huh? Literally falling into a stranger's arms."

"I've had worse introductions."

"Have you?"

"No. But I'm trying to make you feel better."

She laughs again. It's a good laugh—full, unguarded. "I'm Elena. 8B."

"Marcus. 5C."

"Nice to meet you, Marcus 5C. Any idea what we do now?"

I check my phone. One percent. The flashlight drains what's left in about thirty seconds, showing me a glimpse of the stairwell—concrete walls, metal railings, no windows—before it dies completely.

"I guess we wait."

We sit on the stairs.

Not by choice, exactly. The doors to every floor are locked from the stairwell side—fire code, probably—and neither of us has our keys. I left mine on the kitchen counter. She was heading out for the night.

"Hot date?" I ask, and then immediately wish I hadn't.

"Girls' night. Drinks downtown." I hear the shrug in her voice. "It's fine. They'll survive without me."

"They might worry."

"They'll assume I bailed. I do that sometimes." A pause. "What about you? Big Friday night plans ruined?"

"I was going to microwave leftover Thai food and watch something forgettable."

"Living the dream."

"That's me."

We're sitting close. We have to be—the stairs are narrow, and in the dark, proximity is comfort. Her shoulder brushes mine every time one of us shifts. Her thigh is warm against my leg.

"How long do you think?" she asks.

"Depends on what caused it. Could be minutes. Could be hours."

"Hours?" A groan. "I have to pee."

"There's a corner."

"I am not peeing in a corner in front of a stranger."

"I promise not to look."

She shoves my shoulder. "You can't look. It's pitch black."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is dignity, Marcus."

I grin in the dark. "Fair enough."

The first hour passes in conversation.

She's thirty-two. Works in graphic design. Moved into the building six months ago after a breakup she doesn't want to talk about. Likes bad reality TV, good wine, and cooking elaborate meals that she eats alone.

"That sounds sadder than it is," she says. "I like the cooking part. The eating-alone part is just... efficient."

"Efficient."

"No one to judge when I eat straight from the pot."

"I respect that."

"You should. It's the hallmark of a well-adjusted adult."

I learn that she talks with her hands even when no one can see them—I feel the air move when she gestures, her elbow bumping mine. I learn that she laughs easily and often, usually at herself. I learn that her voice changes when she's nervous—speeds up, goes a little higher.

She's nervous now. But she keeps talking.

"What about you?" she asks. "What's your tragic backstory?"

"What makes you think it's tragic?"

"You live alone in a city apartment and your Friday night plans were leftover Thai food. Everyone in that situation has a tragic backstory."

"Maybe I'm just an introvert."

"Introverts still have tragic backstories. They just don't tell people about them."

"You're very wise."

"I know." I hear her shifting on the stairs. "Come on. We're stuck here. Might as well share."

So I tell her. The abbreviated version—moved here for a job that didn't pan out, stayed because starting over somewhere else felt like admitting failure. Single for two years. Not sad about it, exactly. Just... numb.

"Numb's worse than sad," she says quietly. "Sad at least means you're feeling something."

"That's very wise too."

"I know." Her shoulder presses against mine. "But you're feeling something now, right? Stuck in the dark with a stranger. That's not numb."

"No," I admit. "This isn't numb."

The second hour, we run out of safe topics.

"Okay," she says. "Truth or truth. There's no dare option because I can't see you do anything."

"That's just called 'questions.'"

"Don't be difficult. I'll go first." A pause. "When's the last time you had sex?"

I nearly choke on nothing. "That's your opening question?"

"We've been sitting in the dark for two hours. I'm bored and I've told you about my childhood dog and my complicated relationship with my mother. I'm escalating."

"It's been... a while."

"Define 'a while.'"

"Eight months."

"Oof." She sounds genuinely sympathetic. "Why?"

"I don't know. I stopped trying, I guess. Got tired of apps and bad dates and—" I shake my head, even though she can't see it. "You?"

"Fourteen months."

"That's longer than mine."

"It's not a competition, Marcus."

"If it was, you'd be winning."

She laughs. That full, warm sound again. "I told you—I had a breakup. And after that I just... didn't want anyone touching me for a while."

"And now?"

The question hangs in the dark. I didn't mean to ask it. It just came out.

"Now..." Her voice has changed. Slower. Lower. "Now I'm sitting in the dark with a stranger who caught me when I fell, and I can't see what he looks like, and all I can think about is what he feels like."

My heart is pounding.

"What do I feel like?"

"Strong." Her hand finds my arm in the dark. Trails down to my wrist. "You caught me like I weighed nothing. And I definitely don't weigh nothing."

"You felt—"

"Big?" There's something careful in her voice now. "Yeah. I know. I'm not exactly—"

"Perfect," I finish. "You felt perfect."

Silence.

"You can't see me," she says finally. "You don't know what I look like."

"I know what you feel like. I know what you sound like. I know you make me laugh and you're too smart for your own good and your voice is the best thing I've heard in months." I turn toward her in the dark. "Whatever you look like, I already know I'm going to like it."

"That's a big gamble."

"I've got nothing else to do tonight."

She laughs—softer this time. Closer.

"Can I—" She hesitates. "Can I touch you? Just to see what you look like?"

"Yeah."

Her hands find my face.

Her fingers trace my features like a blind woman reading braille.

My jaw. The scruff I didn't shave this morning. My cheekbones, my temples, the bridge of my nose. She runs her thumb across my bottom lip, and I stop breathing.

"You feel handsome," she murmurs.

"You can't feel handsome."

"I absolutely can. Strong jaw. Good nose. Lips that feel like they know what they're doing." Her thumb traces my mouth again. "You're not smiling."

"I'm too focused to smile."

"On what?"

"On not doing something stupid."

"Like what?"

"Like kissing you."

Her breath catches. I hear it—sharp, surprised, wanting.

"That would be stupid," she agrees. "We just met. We can't see each other. We don't know anything about—"

"I know you," I interrupt. "I've been learning you for two hours. I know you're funny and self-deprecating and you talk with your hands. I know you're scared of being vulnerable but you keep doing it anyway. I know you haven't let anyone touch you in fourteen months because someone hurt you and you're still healing." I reach up, find her face in the dark. She's got soft cheeks. Round chin. "I don't need to see you to know you."

"Marcus..."

"Tell me not to kiss you and I won't."

She doesn't tell me.

Kissing in the dark is different.

You can't see it coming. Can't track the approach of another person's mouth. One moment there's anticipation, and the next there's contact—her lips on mine, soft and full, tasting like the breath mints she'd been carrying.

I cup her face and kiss her deeper.

She makes a sound—half sigh, half moan—and her hands slide into my hair. She kisses like she talks: warm, unhurried, with moments of unexpected intensity. Her tongue traces my bottom lip and I open for her, and then we're really kissing, the kind that makes you forget to breathe.

"This is crazy," she gasps between kisses.

"Yeah."

"I don't even know what you look like."

"Neither do I."

"What if—" Another kiss, deeper. "What if you're disappointed when you see me?"

"What if you are?"

She pulls back. "That's not—I'm the one who—" A frustrated sound. "I'm fat, Marcus. Like, actually fat. Not curvy, not thick, not whatever nice word people use. I'm a big girl. And that's fine, I've made peace with it, but I need you to know what you're getting into before—"

I cut her off with another kiss. Then I pull back.

"I knew," I say. "From the moment you fell into me. And I haven't stopped wanting to touch you since."

"You can't know that you'll—"

"I know that right now, in this dark, you're the most real thing I've felt in years. I know your voice makes me hard and your laugh makes me want to hear it again and when you fell against me, all that softness—" I find her hand, press it to my chest. "Feel that? My heart's pounding. That's what you do to me."

"Marcus..."

"I want to touch you. Not to see what you look like—to see what you feel like. All of you. Will you let me?"

She doesn't answer with words.

She takes my hand and places it on her chest.

I learn her body the way she learned my face.

My hands trace the curve of her shoulders, the thickness of her arms. She's wearing something soft—a sweater, maybe—and I feel the shape of her underneath it. Her breasts are heavy, full, spilling over the top of her bra when I cup them. She gasps and arches into my touch.

"Is this okay?" I ask.

"Don't stop."

I don't stop.

I map her waist—soft rolls that my fingers sink into, warm flesh beneath thin fabric. Her belly is round and full, pushing against her jeans, and when I stroke my palm across it, she shivers.

"People don't usually—" Her voice is shaky. "They don't touch me there."

"Then people are idiots."

I press my lips to her belly through her sweater. She makes a sound I want to hear again.

"You're so soft," I murmur against her. "Every inch of you. I want to sink into you and never come out."

"God..." Her hands are in my hair, gripping. "Keep talking."

"I want to feel all of you. Your thighs—" My hands slide down, gripping her hips, thumbs stroking the soft flesh of her belly. "I bet they're incredible. I bet they'd feel amazing wrapped around me."

"They're big."

"I like big."

"You can't know that."

I stand, pulling her with me. Then I lift her—hands under her thighs, her back against the wall—and she wraps her legs around my waist with a shocked gasp.

"I know exactly what I like," I tell her. "And it's this. All of this."

I kiss her again.

We don't have sex in the stairwell.

We come close. She grinds against me, and I can feel the heat of her through her jeans. My hands are under her sweater, filling with her breasts, and she's moaning into my mouth and rolling her hips and—

"Wait." She pulls back, breathing hard. "Wait, wait."

I stop. Immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She laughs breathlessly. "Nothing's wrong. That's the problem. I want to keep going. I really, really want to keep going. But—"

"Not in a stairwell."

"Not in a stairwell," she agrees. "Not the first time."

"The first time?"

"Presumptuous?"

"Hopeful."

Her laugh is shaky. "When the lights come back on—if you're still interested after you see me—"

"I will be."

"You don't know that."

"I do." I set her down gently, keeping my hands on her waist. "But okay. We'll wait. And when the lights come on, and you see me looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, you're going to feel very silly about doubting this."

"And if you look at me with disappointment?"

"Then I'll be the one feeling silly, because I'll have been wrong about everything." I pull her close, wrap my arms around her. "But I won't be wrong, Elena. I already know."

She presses her face into my neck.

"How are you real?" she whispers.

"Three hours of darkness and a power outage."

"Thank god for infrastructure failures."

I laugh into her hair.

We sink back down to the stairs, and she settles against me—all that warmth, all that softness, pressed into my side. Her head on my shoulder. Her hand on my chest.

We wait.

The lights come on at 3:47 AM.

I know the exact time because I see my watch for the first time in five hours. The emergency lights flicker, buzz, stabilize. The stairwell fills with harsh fluorescent light.

And I see her.

Elena is beautiful.

Not beautiful like a magazine. Beautiful like a person—real, imperfect, alive. She's bigger than I expected, maybe five-four and over two hundred pounds, with wide hips and thick thighs and a belly that presses against her sweater. Her breasts are huge, straining her bra, and her face is round and flushed and framed by dark curly hair that's gone wild from hours in the dark.

She's blinking in the light, not looking at me. Her eyes are brown. Deep, warm brown.

"Elena."

She flinches. Braces herself. Turns to look at me.

I'm already smiling.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi." Her voice is small. Scared. "So now you see."

"I see." I reach up, brush a curl from her face. "You're beautiful."

"I'm—"

"Beautiful. Gorgeous. Everything I thought you'd be." I cup her face in my hands, the way she did to me in the dark. "These eyes. This face. This body." I let one hand trail down, stroking her side. "I want all of it. I told you I wouldn't be wrong."

Her eyes are wet.

"You're not supposed to be real," she whispers.

"Neither are you."

I kiss her in the light.

We don't make it to her apartment.

We try. We walk up the stairs together—her door's on eight, after all—but somewhere around the sixth-floor landing, she pushes me against the wall and kisses me so hard I see stars.

"Can't wait," she pants. "Sorry—I can't—"

"My place is closer."

We practically run down two flights of stairs.

I fumble with my keys—I have to break into my own apartment through the unlocked window on the fire escape, which makes her laugh—and then we're inside, and I'm pushing her against the door, and she's pulling at my shirt.

"Let me see you," she says.

I strip for her. She watches—those brown eyes tracking every inch of me—and when I'm naked, she bites her lip.

"Oh."

"Good oh?"

"Very good oh." Her eyes drop to my cock, which is hard and aching and has been for hours. "Can I—"

"Your turn first."

I undress her slowly.

Her sweater comes off, revealing a bra that's working overtime to contain her breasts. I kiss her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of flesh above the lace. She shivers.

Her jeans take some work—they're tight, and she's self-conscious about struggling out of them—but when they're off, she's left in just her bra and panties, and I step back to look.

God.

Wide hips that flow into thick thighs, dimpled and soft. A belly that rounds out from beneath her bra, folds of flesh that I want to bury my face in. Breasts that overflow her bra, heavy and full. Stretch marks and cellulite and curves, endless curves.

"Say something," she whispers.

"Come here."

She does.

I worship her with my mouth.

Start at her neck—that spot that made her gasp in the dark—and work my way down. Her collarbone. Her chest. I unhook her bra and fill my hands with her breasts, so heavy, so soft, nipples hardening under my thumbs.

"Oh god—Marcus—"

I take one nipple in my mouth. Suck. Her knees buckle, and I catch her, guide her to the bed. Lay her out like an offering.

"You're incredible," I tell her. "Every inch."

I kiss her belly. All of it—the soft roll above her waistband, the full curve below her breasts, every stretch mark I can find. She squirms, tries to suck in.

"Don't." I press my palm flat against her. "I want to feel all of you."

"Marcus..."

"I've been thinking about this for hours. Imagining what you'd look like, what you'd feel like." I hook my fingers in her panties. "Let me see the rest."

She lifts her hips.

I pull the panties down.

She's bare.

Wet. I can see it glistening, even from here. Her thighs fall open, and she's thick—soft flesh everywhere, framing a pussy that's pink and swollen and practically dripping.

"Jesus," I breathe. "You're soaked."

"I've been listening to your voice for five hours." Her cheeks are flushed. "What did you expect?"

I spread her thighs wider and bury my face between them.

She screams.

Her thighs clamp around my head—thick and soft, pressing against my ears—and I tongue her clit while she bucks against me. She tastes incredible. Sweet and musky and real. I could drown in her.

"Marcus—fuck—right there—"

I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight—tighter than I expected—and hot, and she clenches around me like she's trying to keep me there forever.

"That's it." I curl my fingers, find the spot that makes her whole body jerk. "Come for me, Elena. Let me feel it."

"I'm—oh god—I'm going to—"

She shatters.

Her thighs squeeze my head so hard I can't hear anything but the rush of blood. Her pussy clenches on my fingers in rhythmic waves. She's shaking, crying out, hands fisted in my sheets, and I don't stop—I keep licking, keep stroking, drawing it out until she's begging.

"Too much—Marcus—I can't—"

I pull back. Wipe my face. Crawl up her body.

"Hi," I say.

She laughs breathlessly. "Hi."

"Good?"

"I can't feel my legs."

"Then I'm just getting started."

I slide into her.

Slow. Inch by inch. Feeling her stretch around me, that incredible tightness, that heat. She's gasping, nails digging into my shoulders, and when I'm finally all the way in, we both go still.

"Oh," she breathes.

"Yeah."

"You feel..."

"You too."

I start to move.

We don't fuck—not yet. We rock together, slow and deep, learning each other's rhythms. Her body moves like water beneath me, all those curves rippling with every thrust. I brace myself on my elbows so I can watch her face—the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her lips part on every gasp.

"Harder," she whispers. "I can take it."

I give her harder.

The bed creaks. Her breasts bounce with every thrust. I grip her hips—so much flesh to hold onto—and drive into her, and she matches me thrust for thrust, rolling her hips, meeting me halfway.

"You feel so fucking good," I groan. "So soft, so tight—"

"Don't stop—don't stop—"

I flip her over.

She gasps as I pull her up onto her hands and knees—all that flesh on display, her ass round and wide, her thighs thick, her pussy glistening. I grab her hips and thrust back in.

"Marcus!"

I fuck her hard from behind. Watch her ass ripple with every impact. Feel her whole body shake. She's moaning, face pressed into the pillow, backing up onto me like she can't get enough.

"Touch yourself," I order. "Come again."

Her hand slides between her thighs. I feel her fingers brushing my cock as she rubs her clit. She's tightening around me, getting close.

"That's it—fuck—you're so beautiful like this—"

"I'm gonna—Marcus—I'm—"

She comes again.

Clenches so hard I have to stop moving or it'll be over. I grip her hips, hold still, feel her pulse around me while she screams into the pillow. Aftershocks make her twitch and shake.

And then I start moving again.

I don't last much longer.

How could I? Five hours of her voice, her touch, her warmth. Five hours of wanting her without seeing her, and now she's here, she's real, she's everything I imagined and more.

"Inside me," she gasps. "Please—I want to feel it—"

I thrust deep—once, twice—and break.

I come so hard my vision whites out. Bury myself in her and pulse, emptying into her, holding her hips so tight there'll be marks tomorrow. She moans beneath me, clenching around me, milking every last drop.

We collapse together.

Dawn comes through the window.

We're lying tangled in my sheets—her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine, her body a warm weight against my side. I'm stroking her hair. Neither of us has slept.

"So," she says.

"So."

"That was..."

"Yeah."

She laughs softly. "For a five-hour conversation, we really stopped using words there at the end."

"Words are overrated."

"Says the man who seduced me with nothing but his voice."

I tilt her face up. Kiss her. "I had other tools."

"Mm." She settles back against me. "What happens now?"

"Now we sleep. Later, I make you breakfast. Tonight, we do this again."

"That's presumptuous."

"Is it wrong?"

She's quiet for a moment. Her hand traces patterns on my chest.

"No," she admits. "It's not wrong."

"Then?"

"Then I guess I'm glad the power went out."

I pull her closer. She fits against me perfectly—all her softness against my angles, her curves filling the spaces I didn't know were empty.

"Elena?"

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you fell."

She laughs. That warm, full sound I heard first in the dark.

"Me too, Marcus." She presses a kiss to my chest. "Me too."

Outside, the city is waking up. Power restored. Lights on. Everything back to normal.

Inside, I hold her, and nothing will ever be normal again.

I think I'm okay with that.