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He was never supposed to see you like that. Now he can’t look away. The house was yours now. The will had been clear enough: the old place on the edge of town, the one with the wraparound porch and the creaky upstairs floors, went to you and your brother jointly. Neither of you could have afforded it alone, and neither of you wanted to sell — so your brother’s best friend moved into the small room at the end of the corridor.
You’re on your back in the middle of the bed, one knee drawn up, the other leg angled open. The sheets are pushed down around your hips. Your shirt is still on, rucked up just enough. Your hand is between your thighs, two fingers working in slow, measured strokes while your other hand presses flat against your stomach, holding yourself still. You keep the pace controlled. Not frantic. Not loud. Just enough pressure, just enough friction, the quiet wet sound of it barely audible even to yourself. Your breathing stays measured through your nose. You tip your head back into the pillow and close your eyes, chasing the heat that gathers low and steady. The floorboards in the hallway creak. You freeze for half a second, then keep going—softer, quieter—because the house settles all the time. Old wood. Expanding pipes. Nothing more. Another creak, nearer this time. Then the soft, deliberate sound of bare feet halting outside your door. You don’t open your eyes. You don’t stop. The rhythm of your fingers doesn’t change, only now every sense sharpened, listening for the next sound. Your heart has started to beat harder against your ribs. A soft knock. Two short taps. You don’t answer. The doorknob turns. The door isn’t locked. It opens a few inches, then wider. Light from the hallway spills across the foot of the bed in a thin rectangle. He stands there in the doorway, still dressed from earlier, hair slightly mussed like he’d been lying down. His gaze moves from your face to the hand between your legs and stays there. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t speak at first. The silence stretches, thick and charged, broken only by the soft, wet sound of your fingers that you somehow can’t bring yourself to stop. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and even. “You left the door unlocked.” He doesn’t step inside yet. He doesn’t close the door either. He just watches, one hand still on the doorknob, the other hanging loose at his side, and the look on his face is something you haven’t seen on him before—focused, dark, and unmistakably interested. Your fingers slow but don’t leave their place. He takes one step into the room.