The first thing I felt was warmth—soft and golden, slipping through the curtain folds and gently wrapping itself around my skin. Morning light. Safe, steady. I stirred beneath the blanket, my cheek pressing into the pillow's cool side, and before I even opened my eyes, I sensed him.
His breath was close, steady. Then, a soft kiss—barely a whisper—landed on my cheek. It wasn't a demand. It was a message.
I smiled before my eyes opened. When I turned toward him, he was already looking, eyes soft, slightly tired. He hadn't been sleeping well. I knew that. But this morning, something in the silence between us felt different. Easier.
"I'm taking the day off," he said.
That was all. No explanations. But I knew the weight behind it. After everything we'd been through—his quiet suspicions, my confused guilt, the spaces between our words. I think we both just wanted to feel normal again. Human.
We moved slowly, like people trying to remember how to dance after forgetting the rhythm. We made breakfast together—eggs, toast, far too many vegetables chopped for an omelet that couldn't hold them all. The kitchen was alive again, clinking utensils, scattered laughter, moments where our fingers brushed and neither of us pulled away.
I laughed when he dropped a piece of mushroom on the floor. He made a dramatic face when I sprinkled too much chili on his side of the pan. For those few hours, I let myself believe that nothing had changed. That the air hadn't been heavy. That there was no old fear curling around the edges of our days.
Then, the doorbell rang.
I was closest, but he reached it first. I followed a step behind, drying my hands with a towel, heart still light from the moments we'd shared.
But then I saw who it was.
The old man from next door.
That grin. That awful, knowing grin. Like he knew something he shouldn't. Like he was always waiting for us to forget he existed—until he made sure we didn't.
His eyes met mine. No effort to hide the way they scanned me. Not lust, exactly—something fouler. Possessive. A gaze that lingered too long, as if he had imagined more than was ever real.
"Ah, my lovely neighbors," he said, eyes flicking between us like we were part of some joke he hadn't shared.
He asked for help. Something about boxes on a high shelf. His voice dripped with politeness but carried that uncomfortable undertone—the kind that makes your stomach tense even before your mind catches up.
I saw my husband stiffen. Just slightly. A muscle in his jaw moved.
"I'll come," he offered quickly.
But the man, always too clever for his own good, smiled wider. "Ah, but someone will need to hold the ladder. And I can't manage that anymore. So your wife will have to come too."
I felt my husband shift beside me. I placed a hand gently on his arm and spoke before he could. "It's alright," I said. My voice was calm, soft. Controlled. "I'll help."
I could feel his hesitation, but he trusted me. He nodded.
As we followed the man down the short garden path to his house, I felt that gaze again. On my back. Every step I took. Every sway of fabric. It wasn't just looking—it was calculating. It made my skin crawl.
His house smelled like old books, closed windows, and something faintly musty — like time had stopped moving inside. I held the ladder steady, planting my feet, glancing up to watch my husband climb. His broad back flexed as he reached above. I always admired his strength, his quiet confidence. But now, there was tension in his shoulders — like he didn't want to turn his back.
Then, I felt it.
The old man had stepped in closer behind me. I could sense him before I saw him — the heat of his body, too close to mine. My skin prickled.
"Don't hold it there, dear," he said, his voice low, almost intimate. "You've got to come here... this part's more stable."
I hesitated. There was something in his tone — not quite command, not quite invitation — but something that slid under my skin. I moved slowly, cautious. As I adjusted my grip on the ladder, his hand reached out, resting on mine.
It should've been innocent. Helpful. But it wasn't.
His fingers were dry, papery — but the pressure was deliberate. Too long. Too sure. I tried to pull back, subtly, but he held me just a breath longer, guiding my hand as if I were a child. His chest brushed lightly against my back. It sent a jolt down my spine — not pleasure, not fear, but something complicated.
"You've got soft hands," he murmured.
I didn't reply. I kept my eyes on my husband, hoping he hadn't seen that brief, too-close contact. My face felt hot. My pulse quickened. Not because I wanted it — god, no — but because I didn't understand my own reaction.
This man disgusted me… yet his proximity, the forbidden wrongness of it, made my breath come quicker. I felt ashamed of even noticing.
Then the box slipped.
I gasped, instinct taking over. I lunged forward, brushing past the old man to catch it. In the scramble, my hip struck his side, and I felt him fall.
Hard.
I whirled around, crouching. "Oh god—are you alright?" My hands hovered, unsure where to touch. He groaned, theatrically, clutching his lower back.
I looked over my shoulder at my husband. His jaw was clenched. His eyes unreadable.
Later, in the car, the old man's groans continued, each one like a small performance. I sat stiff beside him, torn between guilt, anger, and an emotion I didn't want to name.
It wasn't arousal.
It was the strange disorientation of being seen — too closely, too deliberately — by someone I didn't want seeing me at all.
And the shameful truth that I felt it.
Later, at the clinic, the doctor said it was just a minor sprain. One week of bed rest. That was all.
But the old man moaned dramatically, like he was dying.
I couldn't meet my husband's eyes. I didn't want to see what he was thinking. Because I knew the guilt was already blooming in me. Not because I'd done anything wrong, but because someone got hurt near me. Because I let that man touch me, even briefly. Because I wasn't quick enough. Strong enough. Smart enough.
Back home, the light in the house felt colder. We barely spoke as we changed out of our clothes. I sat on the bed, staring at the floor, feeling the weight of something I couldn't quite name.
Then he sat beside me.
He didn't say much. Just small, silly things. Little jokes. The kind of nonsense that used to make me giggle when we were younger.
And eventually, I did laugh. Quietly. But genuinely.
We curled up under the blanket, closer than we'd been in days. His arm draped over my waist. My fingers found his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat slowed mine. I closed my eyes and let myself breathe. Safe again. Close again.
Tomorrow could wait.