Under the same roof

The house settles into its usual evening quiet after Adrian disappears upstairs for his calls. I stay in the kitchen longer than I should, finishing the fruit he cut for me one slow bite at a time. Every piece tastes like the moment his hand covered mine. I keep replaying the brush of his skin, the low command in his voice when he told me to eat slowly, the way he stood close enough that I could have leaned in and pressed my mouth to the base of his throat.

I shouldn’t want that.

I want it anyway.

By the time I rinse the plate and put it in the dishwasher, the sky outside the tall windows has turned a deep indigo. The automatic lights in the garden switch on, soft gold spilling across the perfectly manicured lawn and the dark surface of the infinity pool. Everything about this place is designed to look untouched, controlled, expensive. The same way Adrian looks.

I walk upstairs barefoot, the marble cool under my soles. My bedroom is at the opposite end of the hall from his. Close enough that I sometimes hear the low murmur of his voice on late calls. Close enough that on nights when the ache gets too sharp I lie awake imagining him walking the short distance to my door.

Tonight the hallway is silent. Light spills from under his door in a thin gold line. He’s still working.

I slip into my room and close the door quietly behind me. The space is large and airy, decorated in soft neutrals the interior designer chose after my mother died. Nothing in here feels like it belongs to me except the clothes in the walk-in closet and the small framed photo on the nightstand—my mother and me at the beach the summer before she married into this family. She’s smiling. I look happy. I don’t remember what that felt like anymore.

I strip out of the dress and stand in front of the full-length mirror in only my underwear. My body looks the same as it did this morning, but I feel different. Restless. Overheated. The place between my legs is still sensitive from the way I pressed my hand there in the study. I run my fingers lightly over the front of my panties and bite my lip at the soft pulse of need that answers.

Adrian’s face rises in my mind again—dark eyes, damp hair, the controlled line of his mouth. I imagine him standing behind me right now, watching my reflection. I imagine his hands sliding around my waist, one moving up to cup my breast, the other dipping lower.

A shaky breath leaves me.

I force my hand away and walk into the bathroom. A cold shower helps only a little. I dress in soft sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt that slips off one shoulder, then climb into bed with my laptop. I tell myself I’ll review notes for tomorrow’s lecture. Instead I open a blank document and stare at the blinking cursor.

Sometimes I write the things I can’t say out loud. Not full stories—just fragments. Descriptions of what I want him to do to me. The way I want his voice to sound when he finally stops holding back. Tonight the words come easily.

He doesn’t ask permission. He just pushes my thighs apart and looks at me like he’s been starving. When he puts his mouth on me it’s slow at first, almost careful, until I start shaking. Then he holds me down and takes what he wants.

I stop typing. My face is hot. My pulse is loud in my ears. I delete the paragraph, then open a new one and write it again with more detail. By the time I force myself to close the laptop, my sleep shorts are damp and my breathing is uneven.

I turn off the light and lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come. Every time I close my eyes I see him in the kitchen again, standing too close, telling me to eat slowly like he had every right to decide what my body did.

Around midnight I hear his door open. Soft footsteps move down the hall. For a second my heart climbs into my throat—stupid, hopeful, ridiculous. The footsteps continue past my room and down the stairs. A few minutes later I hear the quiet click of the terrace door.

He’s outside.

I tell myself not to get up. I get up anyway.

The hallway is dark. I move carefully, skipping the floorboard that always creaks, and stop at the wide windows that overlook the back of the property. From here I can see the terrace and the edge of the pool.

Adrian is sitting on one of the low lounge chairs, elbows on his knees, phone in one hand. The outdoor lights catch the sharp line of his profile and the way the T-shirt stretches across his shoulders. He looks tired. He also looks like the only thing I’ve wanted for years.

I rest my forehead against the cool glass and watch him.

I was twelve when my mother married his father. Adrian was nineteen, already halfway through university, already carrying himself like someone who belonged in boardrooms. He was polite to me in the beginning—distant but never unkind. After the wedding he started coming home less. When he did, he treated me the way he treated everyone else in the house: with careful, controlled courtesy.

Everything changed the year I turned sixteen.

My mother died in a car accident on a wet Thursday night. One moment she was texting me that she would be home soon. The next, the hospital was calling. The days that followed are still a blur of black clothes and quiet voices. What I remember clearly is Adrian.

He was the one who found me sitting on the floor of my mother’s closet the morning after the funeral, surrounded by her dresses, unable to stop shaking. He didn’t say anything comforting. He just sat down beside me on the carpet, close enough that our shoulders touched, and stayed there until the worst of it passed. When I finally looked up, his eyes were red but his voice was steady.

“You’re not alone in this house,” he said. “Not while I’m here.”

I believed him.

That was the night the wanting started. It wasn’t sudden. It grew slowly, the way bruises do—quiet at first, then impossible to ignore. I started noticing the way his hands looked when he loosened his tie. The sound of his laugh on the rare occasions something actually amused him. The controlled power in the way he moved. By the time I turned eighteen the fantasies had become a constant, private ache. By twenty they were something closer to need.

Now I’m twenty-two and I still live under the same roof as the man I want more than I’ve ever wanted anything. And he still looks at me like I’m his responsibility instead of the girl who has been silently breaking herself open for him for years.

Outside, Adrian stands up and stretches. The T-shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of skin above the waistband of his sweatpants. My mouth goes dry. He checks his phone once more, then walks back toward the house.

I step away from the window before he can look up and see me.

Back in my room I leave the door cracked open without letting myself think about why. I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chest. My body is restless again, heat gathering low in my stomach. I slide one hand under the waistband of my shorts and bite my lip hard when my fingers find wetness.

I imagine it’s his hand instead of mine.

I imagine he walked past my door, saw it open, and decided he was done pretending.

I imagine the mattress dipping under his weight, the heat of his body covering mine, the rough sound he would make when he pushed inside me for the first time.

My fingers move faster. The orgasm hits quietly, almost painfully, my free hand pressed over my mouth so I don’t make a sound he might hear. When it’s over I lie still, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling while the aftershocks fade.

Shame comes a few minutes later, the way it always does. I pull my hand free, wipe it on the sheets, and roll onto my side.

Somewhere down the hall a door closes softly. Adrian is back in his room.

I close my eyes and try to sleep.

I don’t succeed for a long time.

When I finally drift off, it’s to the same thought that has followed me for years:

One day he’s going to look at me and see everything I’ve been hiding.

And I still haven’t decided whether I want him to turn away… or finally do something about it.