Unspoken, Unforgivable

The next morning, I woke up to a pit forming in my stomach.

It had been growing for days, thickening with every kiss in the dark, every stolen touch behind Jason’s back. But now, it was heavier than usual.

Because we had been seen.

Almost.

I stared at the ceiling and replayed the moment Jason entered the living room.

The look in his eyes. The way his brow creased, even though he hadn’t said anything.

He knew something.

Or at the very least, he’d felt something was wrong. That his best friend and his mother shared something they shouldn't.

I couldn’t pretend forever.

And yet I had no idea how to stop.

I came downstairs to find Jason in the kitchen, tapping through his phone.

He looked up. “You and Mom were up late again.”

I hesitated. “She couldn’t sleep. Neither could I.”

He gave me a look. Half amusement, half something I couldn’t name.

“She talk to you about stuff?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Just… life. Loss. Regret.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then he said something that made my blood chill.

“You ever think she’s lonely in a dangerous way?”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I mean... sometimes lonely people don’t just want company. They want control.”

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

Later that day, my phone buzzed.

Leah. Again.

Leah (11:21 AM): hey. I’m actually nearby. was thinking of dropping in. ur bestie still got a pool?

I stared at the screen like it was a loaded gun.

Then another message came.

Leah: don’t worry. I’ll pretend to be just a friend. I know how you get weird about us.

I replied before I could think better.

Me: It’s not a great time. Maybe later in the week.

Leah: huh. ur still running. classic Ethan.

I didn’t answer.

That night, I tried to avoid Mrs. Rowen.

It didn’t work.

She found me in the laundry room again, folding a towel just to have something to do with my hands.

She came in without knocking, barefoot, wearing that silk robe again. Dark green this time. Bare beneath it, I could feel it in the air before she even moved close.

“Why are you hiding from me?” she asked.

“I’m not.”

“You didn’t come to me last night.”

“Jason…”

“He almost saw,” she interrupted, stepping close. “But almost doesn’t count.”

“I don’t want to ruin this.”

Her hand slipped to my chest.

“It’s already ruined,” she whispered. “That’s what makes it beautiful.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Her other hand rose to my throat, not squeezing, not pushing. Just resting there. Her thumb brushed the edge of my jaw.

“Do you think about me?” she asked.

I nodded.

“When?”

“All the time.”

“Where?”

“Here. Upstairs. In my sleep. In the shower. Everywhere.”

Her eyes darkened. “Show me.”

We didn’t even make it out of the laundry room.

She pressed me against the dryer again, her body sliding against mine like water around stone.

I kissed her slowly at first, taking my time, memorizing her shape again. My hands moved beneath her robe, first at her waist, then over her lower back. Her skin was warm, inviting.

She reached for my hand and guided it.

Lower.

Over her hip. Down her thigh.

Her breath hitched when I touched her, fingers curling instinctively, gently tracing the skin that pulsed with heat. I didn’t rush. I mapped every curve, every shift of muscle beneath skin.

She leaned into me, lips brushing my ear.

“Faster,” she whispered.

I obeyed.

Her hands were on me too, fingers moving with delicate certainty, exploring and claiming all at once. She knew exactly how to coax out a reaction, exactly where to press, where to slow.

When our hips met, it wasn’t violent or rushed.

It was inevitable.

We moved together like memory, like we’d done it a thousand times, even though it had only been three.

Each thrust was silent fire, drawn out by moans swallowed between kisses, hands gripping too tightly, sweat beading between bodies.

She guided me deeper.

Slower.

Again.

And again.

Until her fingers dug into my shoulders and her head fell back against the wall, lips parted, chest heaving.

My name escaped her lips like a prayer.

And I buried my face in her neck and gave her everything.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

We stood there, our skin cooling, the hum of the dryer the only sound in the room.

She finally pulled away, straightening her robe with trembling fingers.

“We have to stop,” she said.

“You don’t want to.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then say you want me.”

She looked up sharply.

Her silence said enough.

That night, Jason knocked on my door.

I had just gotten out of the shower, hair still dripping, towel wrapped around my waist.

He didn’t look me in the eye.

“Leah texted me,” he said.

My heart dropped.

“She asked if I was cool with her visiting. Said she wanted to surprise you but thought she’d ask me first.”

I forced a laugh. “Wow. She’s really doing the most.”

“She’s into you, man.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

He frowned. “Then tell her that.”

I shrugged. “I have.”

He nodded, then paused.

“You sure you’re not hiding something?”

I met his eyes. “What would I be hiding?”

He didn’t answer.

The next day, Leah arrived.

Just showed up. Crop top, sunglasses, bag over one shoulder, her usual smirk in place.

“Surprise,” she said, slipping her arms around me before I could react.

I stiffened.

Jason, walking up from the side yard, laughed. “Well damn, she really came.”

Leah grinned and pulled back, looking me over.

“Miss me?”

She turned her head just slightly, and for a second, I saw her eyes flick past me.

To the upstairs window.

To where Mrs. Rowen stood, watching us through the blinds.

The robe was gone. She wore black now, simple, elegant, composed. But her eyes…

Her eyes were storms.

We spent the afternoon by the pool.

Leah swam laps like it was a game, taunting me with splashes, her body arcing through the water in smooth, confident strokes. Jason grilled burgers. The sun baked the stone tiles, the smell of chlorine thick in the air.

And all the while, I felt her.

Mrs. Rowen.

Watching.

Waiting.

Later, Leah pulled me aside.

We stood in the shade of the patio, her fingers laced through mine.

“Why are you so tense?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying.”

I tried to step back, but she held on.

“I thought you might actually want to see me,” she said, softer now.

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping lower.

“But I think I know what’s going on.”

My blood turned to ice.

“You do?”

Her smile was sad. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

“Who?”

“Don’t insult me.”

She released my hand and turned to go.

“You should be careful,” she said over her shoulder. “Some fires don’t burn clean.”

That night, I found a note slipped under my pillow.

One line.

“You belong to me, or you belong to no one.”

It wasn’t signed.

But I knew who it was from.