Ethan wasn’t supposed to be there.
He wasn’t supposed to be in her house, wasn’t supposed to drink her wine, wasn’t supposed to even look at her the way he did. But the storm that night made everything quieter, slower, heavier — and that’s when rules get blurry.
Her name was Marissa. Fifty-three. Divorced for eight years, two grown kids, a successful interior designer who lived three doors down. Ethan was twenty-eight, renting the basement apartment next door. Their paths crossed because her sink was leaking, and she’d asked if he “knew his way around a wrench.”
He did.
But what she didn’t expect… was how much he noticed her.
That night, after he’d fixed the faucet, she insisted he stay for a drink.
“Storm like this, you shouldn’t walk home,” she said, topping off his glass.
Marissa didn’t dress like most women her age. Her silk blouse clung just enough to suggest, not shout. Her black skirt rode higher than modesty called for when she crossed her legs. There was an elegance to her movements, slow and deliberate, like she knew exactly how much space she occupied — and exactly what it did to him.
Ethan tried to focus on the glass in his hand. Tried not to watch the way her fingers brushed her neck absentmindedly, the way her laugh came low and husky, almost practiced.
And then it happened.
She leaned in to set her glass down, close enough that he caught the faintest trace of her perfume — something warm, like amber and honey. His breath slowed without his permission.
When she pulled back, her eyes caught his.
For just a second.
But it lasted longer than it should have.
“Your back’s tense,” she said suddenly, her voice softer now, less casual.
“Storms do that to me,” he lied, because it wasn’t the storm.
Marissa reached out, fingertips grazing his shoulder — a small, harmless touch. But when her nails dragged lightly down the line of his spine, even through his T-shirt, Ethan felt his breath catch.
Slow motion.
Her nails traced lower, deliberate, like she was following some invisible map only she could see.
He swallowed hard, willing himself to stay still.
“You’re shaking,” she whispered.
“You’re making me,” he admitted, his voice rougher than intended.
That made her smile — small, knowing, dangerous.
There was silence, but not the kind that feels empty. This one was dense, full, humming. Outside, rain hammered the windows. Inside, time bent differently.
Marissa shifted closer, her knee brushing his. The accidental-but-not-accidental kind of touch. Her hand stayed on his back, nails feathering upward now, grazing the sensitive spot just beneath his neck.
Ethan turned slightly, close enough that their faces were only inches apart. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corner of her lips, the soft heat blooming beneath her collarbone.
Her eyes didn’t waver.
Neither did his.
“I shouldn’t…” she murmured.
“I’ll leave if you want me to.”
She didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Instead, her hand slid higher, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him closer until his forehead almost brushed hers. His hand found her waist, hesitated — then stayed.
Marissa’s breath came shallow now, uneven, betraying her composure.
Most men wouldn’t have noticed the way her body arched ever so slightly toward his, or how her pulse fluttered at her throat. Most men wouldn’t have understood what her silence was really saying.
Ethan did.
He leaned in, slow, deliberate, giving her every chance to stop him.
She didn’t.
Her lips didn’t meet his at first.
Her cheek brushed his.
Her breath hit his ear.
And then, finally, her nails dug in — sharp, claiming — as her mouth found his.
Afterward, they sat there in the dim kitchen, both quiet, both breathing heavier than they should.
Marissa pulled her hair back into place, trying to compose herself. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her wine.
“You’re too young,” she said, but it sounded more like regret than a boundary.
“Maybe,” Ethan said softly. “But you didn’t stop me.”
Her laugh was low, almost wicked this time. “I didn’t want to.”
