The door clicked shut.
Silence followed. Thick. Heavy.
I didn't move.
Not at first.
I just stared at the place where he'd stood. The air was still warm from him. The faintest ghost of sweat and cologne lingered in the room like the echo of a kiss never given.
My eyes drifted down the counter. To the spot where he'd leaned. Elbows planted. Shoulders relaxed.
I rose, mug in hand.
My feet carried me before thought could catch up.
I set the cup down gently, then stood where he had. Pressed my palms flat against the edge. Closed my eyes.
It was there.
His scent.
Barely. But real.
That quiet, masculine warmth—skin, heat, laundry detergent, and something deeper. Something that made my pulse stutter and my mouth fall slightly open.
I leaned forward slowly.
Just enough for my cheek to brush the surface.
And I breathed in.
Deep.
God.
It was humiliating how much it thrilled me.
I turned my face slightly. Let the bridge of my nose glide across the cold stone. Inhaled again. My thighs clenched.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't okay.
But it felt so good.
I slid my hips forward, eyes half-lidded, and gently pressed myself to the corner of the counter. Just once. A soft brush of silk and heat and stone.
My breath hitched.
I froze.
The house was still quiet. No movement upstairs. No footsteps outside. I was alone. Completely alone.
My hand gripped the counter's edge.
And I pressed again.
Harder this time. The sharp edge met the throb between my legs like a secret lover—silent, unyielding, real.
I moved—barely.
A subtle grind. Just enough for friction. Just enough to feed the ache.
My jaw clenched. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't moan. Couldn't make a sound.
The robe slipped up slightly as I moved again, slower this time, my body trembling from restraint. My lips parted around a silent gasp, and I pressed my forehead to the cool stone.
I imagined him coming back.
Opening the door. Finding me like this.
Rubbing myself against where he had just stood.
Would he stare? Would he say my name? Would he drop his keys, his jaw, his guard?
Would he touch me?
I whimpered—quiet. Barely a whisper.
Then I stopped.
Still.
Chest heaving.
Sweat clinging behind my knees, along my spine.
I forced myself back. Away from the edge. Straightened my robe with shaking hands and turned, pressing my back to the counter.
I needed to stop.
This was madness.
I needed to get a grip before it ruined me.
But even as I stood there, staring blankly at the fridge door, I knew the truth.
The grip was already gone...
But I had to stop...
I straightened my robe and reached for my mug with shaking fingers.
It was still warm.
Still safe.
I brought it to my lips and took a sip—too fast, too hot. It burned a little. I didn't flinch.
One breath.
Then another.
Control. I had to put it back on like a coat I'd left hanging for too long. And once it was draped over me, I stepped out of the kitchen, crossed the hallway, and sank into the far end of the living room couch.
The television remote sat beside a crumpled throw blanket. I clicked it on and turned the volume down to a whisper. Some mindless cooking show flickered to life—bright colors, cheerful music, laughter that didn't touch me.
I curled one leg beneath me, mug resting on my thigh, and stared at the screen without seeing it.
Minutes passed. I let them.
Then I heard movement upstairs.
Light footsteps. A door creaking open. The soft rhythm of sleep-dragged limbs making their way down the hall.
Lina.
She appeared at the base of the stairs a moment later, hair in a messy knot, hoodie swallowing her frame. Her expression was bleary but relaxed.
She smiled when she saw me.
"Damn, you're up early," she murmured, heading straight for the kitchen.
"I couldn't sleep."
A few seconds later, she joined me on the couch with her own mug—hers full of oat milk and sugar and some flavor syrup that made mine feel ascetic by comparison. She tucked her legs under her and leaned into the cushions like she'd always lived here.
She had.
"You okay?" she asked, peering at me sideways.
I turned slightly toward her. "Why do you keep asking that?"
She shrugged. "You've been through a lot."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine," she said with a grin. "You look like you're trying to levitate."
I laughed, and it came out more genuine than I expected. "It's the coffee."
"Sure it is."
She sipped from her mug, then glanced at the screen.
"You're watching food shows at seven in the morning?"
"I wasn't really watching."
Lina leaned her head back against the cushion. "You know you can talk to me, right? Like, actually talk?"
"I know."
"Good."
She let the silence stretch again, and I was grateful for it. Her presence filled the room without demanding anything from me. For once.
We watched quietly for a while.
But my thoughts… weren't quiet.
They clung to the kitchen. The scent of him. The sound of his voice. The stretch of his arms.
He was out running.
Sweating.
Moving.
Breathing heavy, out in the wind.
And I was here, drinking coffee with my little sister like a well-behaved woman who didn't spend the morning pressed against a counter pretending it was his hips between her thighs.
My hand tightened around the mug.
Lina nudged me with her elbow.
"Maybe we should get out later. Walk, shop, distract you."
"Maybe."
"You could use some sun."
I smiled faintly. "You just want to dress me up."
She grinned. "Obviously."
And the moment passed.
But I knew the truth.
I didn't want sun.
I wanted to burn.