Mira sat off to the side, her own plate long empty. She watched them—Eren and Velira—eating slowly, languidly, their exhaustion still clinging to their movements. The aftermath of their earlier indulgence.
Mira exhaled softly, her gaze flicking to Eren—then downward. The bulge beneath the towel he wore shifted gently with each motion, blissfully unaware of her watching eyes. She bit the inside of her cheek, her breath catching. In bed, it was fine, she reminded herself. There, it was all shadows and heat and muffled groans. But here, in the kitchen, in the soft domestic quiet of morning... she was his aunt. A role. A figure of maturity. To look at him like this, to want like this, felt filthy. What if he thought she was nothing more than a desperate, aging woman trying to keep up? What if—
Her eyes stayed fixed, almost drilling through the fabric. A pulse trembled through her lips and onto her trembling thighs—subtle, yet undeniable.
