The music was low, just background noise meant to make silence feel less dangerous. But in that moment, silence had its own weight.
Mara sat at the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under her, glass of red wine balanced loosely in her hand. The soft lamplight painted her bare shoulder gold, and the edge of her silk robe had fallen open more than she seemed to notice—or maybe she noticed too much.
Ethan sat next to her, close but not close enough to touch, knees brushing only when one of them shifted slightly. He told himself he came over to “help her set up her new TV,” but the truth was, neither of them had thought about the TV for the last hour.
She laughed at something he said. Soft. Low. And then she looked at him—longer than casual, shorter than safe.
Her lips were parted, just a little. The rim of the glass left a faint stain of red on her mouth, and Ethan watched her tongue sweep it away, slow, deliberate. He wasn’t sure if she did it for him, but his pulse jumped anyway.
He leaned in—not enough to touch her, just enough to see if she’d move.
She didn’t.
Her perfume drifted between them, warm and intoxicating. Vanilla, maybe. Or something more dangerous.
“Your robe’s…” he started, his voice rough, unsure.
“I know,” she murmured, not fixing it. Her hand rested on her thigh, just inches from his, fingers relaxed, nails painted the same deep red as the wine in her glass.
Something about the way her breathing shifted made the air feel heavier.
Ethan’s hand moved before his mind could stop it. He let his fingers rest lightly on the edge of the couch, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin but not close enough to call it a touch.
And then—barely—she moved her hand. Just slightly.
Her pinky brushed against his.
Not by accident.
His gaze flicked up to hers, searching for permission, for refusal, for anything. But Mara didn’t look away. Her pupils were dark, wide, unblinking, and her lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile.
Slowly—achingly slowly—Ethan let his fingers graze the back of her hand.
She didn’t stop him.
He traced the line of her knuckles, hesitant at first, like a question he wasn’t sure he should ask. Her breathing deepened, chest rising just a little higher, lips parting just a little wider.
“Mara,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer.
She just leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, robe shifting with gravity’s pull, neckline dipping lower, shadows deepening where silk failed to cover. The lamplight caught the soft curve of her collarbone, the faint sheen of her skin.
Ethan swallowed hard, fingers trembling as they slid an inch lower along her hand, brushing against her wrist, then the inside of her forearm.
She still didn’t stop him.
If anything, she tilted her head, exposing her throat, pulse fluttering visibly beneath thin skin.
“Tell me to leave,” he said hoarsely.
Her smile deepened—not playful, not innocent, but knowing. “Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
The moment stretched, thick and fragile. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He moved closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her, close enough that his knee brushed the soft fabric of her robe.
Ethan’s fingers hesitated—just for a breath—before sliding lower, tracing the delicate inside of her wrist where her pulse beat wildly.
And she still didn’t stop him.
That told him everything.
Her silence wasn’t indecision. It was invitation.
Mara leaned back slowly, resting against the couch cushions, legs uncrossing as the robe shifted again, baring just enough to leave his thoughts tangled and restless.
She lifted her glass, taking a slow sip without breaking eye contact.
“Your turn,” she whispered, voice rough with something unspoken.
The music kept playing softly in the background, but neither of them heard it anymore.