The smell of beer hit before I even reached the bottom of the stairs.
David had already cracked his open, the bottle sweating on the coffee table. Lina sat beside him cross-legged, flipping through channels, her paper bag from the bookstore tossed lazily on the armrest like it held nothing worth hiding.
They both looked up when I entered.
Lina grinned. "There she is."
David lifted his bottle slightly. "Hey."
I nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear as I took the open chair. It faced them—across the rug, a little too close, a little too far.
David leaned forward. "You good?"
I gave him a small smile. "Always."
Lina tossed me a beer. "Food's on the way. I told them extra cheese or you'd sue."
"Thank you," I said quietly, uncapping the bottle with a twist that left my palm sore. I didn't drink often. But I didn't say no.
The TV murmured low in the background—some game show neither of them cared about.
"So," Lina said, turning toward me, "now that you're officially living under my roof and drinking my beer, are you gonna talk about it? Or just pretend you came here for fashion advice and crust?"
I smirked. "Crust is a valid reason."
David chuckled under his breath.
But Lina didn't let up. "I mean it. What happened? Really?"
I looked down at the bottle. Condensation slid down the glass like it didn't want to stay, either.
I inhaled. "It just stopped working. Quietly. Slowly. One day I woke up and realized I'd spent over a decade next to someone who hadn't looked at me like I mattered in years."
Lina's smile faded.
David shifted slightly, but didn't speak.
I went on, voice softer now. "It wasn't cruel. It wasn't even dramatic. It just… ended. We both stopped trying. And when there's no more wanting, what's the point?"
The silence settled thick for a moment.
Then I added—almost to myself—
"I don't think I've felt wanted in a very long time."
David's eyes flicked toward me.
Lina reached out and squeezed my wrist. "Hey. Don't say that."
I shrugged lightly. "It's not tragic. Just… true."
"You're gorgeous," she said firmly.
"You're twenty," I said, too quickly.
She blinked. "Exactly! You're a MILF! I am just a baby!"
I laughed. Quiet. Then leaned back, taking a sip from the bottle.
"I just feel old sometimes. Like the world moved on without telling me. Like I used to be part of the conversation, and now I'm just… observing."
David finally spoke. "You don't seem old."
His voice was casual, almost offhand. But it landed heavier than I expected.
I looked at him.
He held my gaze for just a moment—long enough for it to register that he meant it.
Then—
Ding-dong.
Lina jumped up. "Pizza!"
She jogged to the door, humming under her breath.
I stayed still. Holding the bottle. Holding the heat in my chest.
David looked away first.
But not before I saw it again.
The flicker.
That brief pause.
That tiny, almost invisible hesitation.
And I knew.
He'd heard me.
Maybe not all of it.
But enough...
...
The pizza box sat half-open on the table, three crusts left behind like lazy footprints.
Lina wiped her mouth with a napkin. "That was shamefully good."
"You say that every time," David said, reclining slightly.
"Because I keep hoping guilt will burn calories," she replied, then looked at me. "You good?"
I nodded. "More than."
David glanced down at his plate, then at the bottle in his hand. "I haven't eaten that much in weeks. You're a bad influence."
"Don't blame me," I said. "Blame the cheese."
Lina stood with a satisfied groan. "I'm off duty. Someone else can clean up. I'm going to rot my brain with TV and smut."
She padded into the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.
I began gathering plates.
David lingered for a second.
Then stood.
"I'll help," he said.
I carried the stack of plates into the kitchen, the warmth of the room still clinging to my skin. He followed, grabbing bottles and napkins, stacking everything with casual precision.
We moved quietly for a moment. Hands brushing past each other. The sound of plates in the sink. Water running.
Then—
"You don't seem old to me."
The words came low. Casual. But too direct to ignore.
I didn't look at him right away. Just kept rinsing.
"And how do I seem?" I asked.
He set down a plate beside me. "Put-together. Confident. Kind of intimidating."
That made me glance over.
His tone wasn't teasing. Just honest.
Our eyes met.
Just for a second too long.
I looked away, drying my hands on a towel I didn't remember picking up.
He stepped back, leaned lightly against the counter. "You ever think people just carry themselves differently when they've lived more?"
"Lived more," I echoed, eyebrow raised.
"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "You just… seem like you know things. Stuff you don't say out loud."
I swallowed. "And that's not intimidating?"
"It's interesting."
His voice dipped, just slightly.
Not flirtation.
But interest.
Real.
Sharp.
I turned toward him—slowly.
But before I could speak, Lina called from the living room.
"David! Get over here, this show's about to start!"
He looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
"Duty calls," he said, voice light again.
I nodded. "Go be a good boyfriend."
He smiled.
And left.
But when the kitchen fell quiet again, I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Just stared at the empty space where he'd stood—
And felt the echo of something I wasn't ready to name.
I stood at the sink long after the dishes were done.
The water had gone cool. The towel hung limp in my hands.
But my body felt flushed.
Alive.
The way he looked at me—not like a sister, not like someone forgotten or politely tolerated—it stirred something deep and coiled. Not loud. Not wild.
Just there.
Present.
Like the edge of a knife pressed gently to skin.
You don't seem old to me.
The words looped, soft and insidious.
He didn't say I was beautiful. Didn't say I was sexy. But there was a weight in his voice when he said interesting. A slight pause in the way he held my eyes, like he was searching for something beneath the surface.
Or maybe I just wanted it too badly.
Maybe I imagined it.
But God, I wanted to imagine it.
I pictured him stepping closer. Not leaving when Lina called. Staying. Saying my name in that low, careful voice. Reaching forward, brushing a damp curl from my cheek. Fingertips grazing the skin just below my collarbone, where the silk dipped low.
I pressed my thighs together gently, barely moving, breath caught in my throat.
And I hated how fast my body responded.
To nothing.
To everything.
He hadn't touched me.
He hadn't needed to.
The touch was already inside me.