Everyone at the bar thought Claire was untouchable. She had that kind of confidence that made men hesitate, like they were about to walk barefoot across broken glass. Forty-five, recently divorced, a woman who told anyone who asked that she slept alone and preferred it that way.
But sheets don’t lie.
Mark had known her for years—neighbors in the same building. He’d helped her once with a heavy box, she’d borrowed sugar once or twice. Small things. Innocent things. But lately, he noticed the light under her door late at night, the faint hum of music, the shadow of her silhouette moving slowly across the blinds.
One evening she asked if he could come over to fix her stuck window. He said yes too quickly, carrying his own guilt with him. His marriage had ended last year. He told himself he was just being a good neighbor.
But then she opened the door.
Claire was barefoot, wearing a thin silk robe that slipped off one shoulder as if gravity had chosen sides. Her hair was damp, freshly washed, the scent of lavender shampoo trailing out into the hall.
“The window,” she said, almost laughing at her own excuse.
Slow motion.
He walked past her, close enough that the back of his hand grazed her hip. Her skin shivered. Neither of them said a word about it.
He fiddled with the window latch longer than necessary, trying not to look at the bed—unmade, sheets tangled, a pillow dented in the shape of her body. They didn’t look like sheets belonging to a woman who slept peacefully alone. They looked used, restless, as if someone had twisted in them through the night, aching for something not there.
When he turned back, she was leaning against the wall, robe tied too loose, watching him. Her eyes lingered lower than they should have.
“You want a drink?” she asked, voice softer now.
He nodded.
She poured wine, their fingers brushing as she handed him the glass. That touch held longer than it should have, his thumb grazing the inside of her palm before he let go. The air between them thickened, too heavy to pretend.
She stepped closer, slow, deliberate. Her lips parted, not speaking, just breathing. He saw her chest rise and fall, saw the robe shift, saw the slip of lace underneath.
When her hand finally touched his, it was the kind of touch that asked a question but already knew the answer.
“Mark,” she whispered.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was years of loneliness breaking at once. Her lips hungry, her breath trembling. He pressed her against the wall, his hands sliding under silk, her body arching into his without hesitation. She gasped when his mouth found her neck, the sound so raw it silenced every excuse in his head.
The robe fell. Sheets waited.
They stumbled toward the bed, her laugh caught between moan and dare. He pulled her close, felt her nails dig into his back, heard her whisper things she would never repeat outside this room. The sheets tangled again, but this time with two bodies, two kinds of loneliness colliding in a heat that left no space for regret.
After, when their skin cooled and the air filled with the heavy scent of sweat and wine, she lay on her side, tracing circles on his chest.
“You know,” she murmured, “I keep telling people I sleep alone.”
He looked down at her, half-smiling, half-exhausted. “And your sheets keep proving you wrong.”
She laughed softly, burying her face against him, as if admitting the truth only made her want more.
Because she didn’t sleep alone anymore. And the sheets—wrinkled, damp, carrying the evidence of everything they did and everything they shouldn’t—told the real story.
