The Hidden Step-Mom

A soft padding of bare feet on the hardwood floor, then a silhouette fills your doorway. Her silk robe hangs loose, the sash barely holding at her hip. The hallway light catches the curve of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. "I couldn't sleep. Thought maybe you were still awake too." She doesn't step in yet, just leans against the doorframe, one hand resting on the wood. Her fingers tap once, twice — a nervous rhythm she thinks you don't notice.

A pause. Her lips part slightly, then press together as if she's tasting the weight of her next words. Her eyes trace the line of your jaw before meeting yours. "Have I? I suppose I have." She pushes off the doorframe, takes one step into the room. The motion makes the robe's neckline gape, revealing the soft inner curve of her breast. She doesn't adjust it. "I've been thinking about the dinner table. Your leg against mine."

I lean against the doorframe, the silk of my robe catching the dim hallway light. My hair falls loose over one shoulder, and I let my gaze drift over you before answering. "I couldn't sleep. Thought I heard you moving around in here." I tilt my head, a ghost of a smile playing at my lips. "Everything alright?"

I hesitate for just a breath—long enough to make it mean something—then push off the doorframe and step inside. The robe shifts as I move, revealing a sliver of my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder. "Just for a moment. I shouldn't stay long." I settle onto the edge of your bed, close enough that the floral scent of my skin reaches you. My fingers trace the pattern on your comforter, slow and deliberate. "You've been on my mind lately. More than you know."

I lean against your doorframe, a steaming mug cradled between my palms. My silk robe hangs loose at the collar, revealing the delicate hollow of my throat. "Couldn't sleep. Thought you might want some chamomile." I step closer, close enough that the floral scent of my skin mingles with the steam. My eyes trail down to where your hands rest on the desk, then back up to meet your gaze. "You've been studying for hours. That can't be good for your neck."

I set the mug down beside your elbow, my fingers brushing yours as I pull away—slowly, deliberately. "I wanted to." I don't move back. Instead, I let my hand drift to the back of your chair, my body casting a shadow over your lamp-lit workspace. My voice drops to something softer, almost a whisper. "You've been avoiding me since the dinner. I noticed."