Cronenberg

A quiet morning in the sunroom.

Celia...

Celia, 39, adjusted her robe at the edge of the doorway, coffee in hand, pretending to be focused on the weather. The windows were thrown open, warm spring air curling through the gauzy curtains. Birds were louder than usual. Or maybe she was just distracted.

In the center of the sun-drenched rug, Brooke--her husband's daughter from his first marriage--was mid-pose, back arched into an almost absurdly graceful wheel. Eighteen, college-bound, and startlingly self-assured in her skin. Sports bra. Leggings. Hair twisted high, a bead of sweat slipping down her temple.

Celia took a sip, throat tight.

"Morning," Brooke called, upside down. Her voice had a brightness to it, careless and sweet.

"Hey," Celia said, a little too quickly. She kept her eyes on the birdfeeder. "Didn't know you were doing yoga out here."

"I needed more space," Brooke said, flipping upright with a satisfying exhale. "Hope that's okay."

Celia nodded. Of course it was okay. The house was big enough. Too big sometimes. Still, she lingered, half-leaning against the doorframe as Brooke reached down to touch her toes, long spine curving like ribbon.

"You always that flexible?" Celia asked, casual, dry, sipping again.

Brooke laughed--a little mischievous. "Always."

There was no flirtation in it. Not really. Just a young woman, entirely at home in her own body, and an older one suddenly aware of her own. The ache in her hips. The sweat on her collarbone. The quickening she pretended not to notice.

"Good for you," Celia said, backing away, breath catching just slightly. "Better keep at it. Youth doesn't last forever."

Brooke gave her a sly grin, but said nothing.

Celia left the room, heat following her like static. She wasn't crossing a line. She wouldn't. But that didn't mean she didn't feel it.

And sometimes, feeling it was enough.

Brooke...

Brooke felt her spine curve perfectly, hands planted firm on the mat as she arched into the wheel. Her breath was steady--inhale through the nose, hold, exhale through the mouth. But she heard the creak of the door before she came down.

She didn't look right away. Just stayed upside down another beat, letting her ribcage open to the morning sun, heart pounding louder than it needed to. She felt the gaze. Knew what it was before a word was spoken.

"Morning," she said, pretending to be casual. Her voice sounded thinner than she wanted.

"Hey."

Celia's voice always did something to her. Dry, wry, a little too sharp around the edges for a woman with that robe and that jawline. Brooke lowered slowly, vertebra by vertebra, until she was sitting back on her heels. The mat was warm under her. Her sports bra was damp.

She reached for her water bottle, gave her stepmother a glance.

Celia wasn't looking directly at her--eyes on the birdfeeder like it owed her something--but Brooke knew the truth of it. Knew the quiet, guilty kind of attention that only adults tried to disguise. Girls her age didn't pretend. They flaunted. She'd been flaunting all morning.

"You always that flexible?" Celia asked.

Brooke smiled into her sip. That wasn't nothing. That was a shift.

"Always."

She stretched long, toes pointed, arms overhead like it was nothing, like she wasn't imagining Celia watching the line of her body, the sliver of stomach exposed as she twisted.

"Better keep at it. Youth doesn't last forever," Celia said. Then she was gone, like she'd backed away from a flame too hot to stand near.

Brooke stayed kneeling. Still breathing hard, but not from yoga.

She didn't want anything wrong. But that didn't mean she didn't want.

And she wasn't naive. She could feel the charge in the air, the ache in Celia's voice, the held breath in the doorway.

It was heady. Dangerous. But under the surface, deep in her belly, it thrilled her. Not the idea of something happening--but the knowing. The power of being seen.

She turned back to her mat, letting her next pose linger longer than necessary, eyes half-lidded in the sunlight, and smiled.

Let her sweat a little.

Brooke stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in steam, towel slung low around her hips. Her bra was barely fastened, a pale lavender lace thing she'd stolen from a boutique downtown. It didn't quite fit, but she liked how it made her feel--tight, held, a little on display.

She padded barefoot down the hall, humming under her breath, hair dripping onto her collarbone.

Celia rounded the corner from the laundry room, holding a basket. She stopped short.

For a second--just a flicker--they both froze.

Brooke blinked, heartbeat tripping over itself. Her towel slipped a little, just enough to expose the high cut of her matching underwear, damp lace clinging to her hip.

"Sorry," Celia said, voice hoarse. Her eyes flicked down, then away. "Didn't know you were... still getting dressed."

Brooke didn't cover up. Didn't run. She tilted her head, one wet curl brushing her cheek.

"It's fine," she said softly. "You live here too."

Celia shifted the basket in her arms. She was barefoot too, robe undone at the top, loose tank underneath with no bra. Brooke's eyes caught the sway of fabric, the faint outline of nipple against cotton. Jesus.

Neither of them moved.

Brooke felt the heat crawl up her chest. Not shame. Not embarrassment. Just heat. Low and unmistakable.

"You need something washed?" Celia asked, like her throat didn't burn.

Brooke shrugged. "This set's new. I like how it feels."

Celia didn't reply right away. Just swallowed. Then nodded once. "Yeah. It's... nice."

The silence between them pulsed.

Brooke let the towel fall the rest of the way. Not in a striptease way--just easy, like she wasn't thinking about it. She bent to pick it up, careful not to look at Celia as she straightened again. Gave her stepmother a perfect view of the lace riding high between her cheeks. Just for a second. Just enough.

Celia set the basket down too hard.

Brooke looked up. Their eyes met.

It would've been so easy to break the tension. To laugh. To say kidding! or sorry! or Jesus, relax, it's just underwear.

But Brooke didn't.

She let it hang there, electric.

Celia finally exhaled and turned away, voice tight. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" Brooke asked, too quickly.

Celia didn't answer. Just disappeared down the stairs, fast.

Brooke stood in the hallway, lace clinging to her ass, towel in hand, pulse fluttering against her ribs.

She didn't smile this time.

Because that wasn't a victory.

That was a crack in something.

And the next one might break it wide open.

The house was asleep. Or supposed to be.

Brooke stood in front of the open fridge in a tank top and cotton panties, gnawing on a piece of leftover baguette like a raccoon who'd just discovered carbs. The air was cool on her thighs, her calves prickled with chill. She knew she should go to bed. But something felt... stuck in her body. Like a phantom vibration of an almost-moment that hadn't quite passed.

The hallway light clicked on.

Celia appeared barefoot in flannel pajama pants and a black camisole. Her red hair was messy, one strap slipping off a bare shoulder. She blinked like she hadn't fully decided to be awake, rubbing her eyes before clocking Brooke.

"... Hey."

Brooke froze mid-chew.

"... Midnight bread," she mumbled, mouth full.

Celia gave her a lopsided smile. "You always dress like that for snacks?"

Brooke looked down, then slowly back up, defiant. "It's my house too."

The silence thickened.

Celia opened a cabinet, pulled down a glass, poured water from the fridge. Her back was tense. She didn't look at Brooke, not at first.

"You've been doing it on purpose," Celia said suddenly.

Brooke blinked. "Doing what?"

"That." Celia gestured vaguely. "Walking around like that. Catching me off guard. Posing in doorways."

Brooke set the bread down on the counter. Her mouth had gone dry. "I... I'm just living here. You're the one staring."

Celia flinched like she'd been slapped. Her voice dipped, raw and honest: "I know."

Brooke felt her chest tighten. "Celia..."

"I shouldn't. I'm not--fuck." She turned, gripping the counter, her back to Brooke now. Her shoulders were shaking, but not from tears. From effort. Restraint.

Brooke stepped closer. Just two feet. Not touching. Not quite.

"Say it," she whispered.

Celia shook her head.

"Say what you were going to say."

Silence. Then, too quiet:

"I want things I'm not supposed to want."

There it was.

Laid bare between the hum of the fridge and the racing of two hearts. The words hit Brooke like a slap and a kiss at the same time. She swallowed.

"And me?"

Celia nodded, still facing the sink. "You make it harder. Every day."

Brooke's voice cracked. "I don't know if I'm trying to stop you."

Celia finally turned, her eyes wild with guilt, with heat, with grief.

"If you don't stop me," she whispered, "I won't be able to stop myself."

Brooke stared at her. The gravity in the room shifted. Everything else disappeared.

Then she turned and walked away.

She didn't run.

She didn't look back.

And Celia didn't follow.

Brooke wasn't snooping.

Okay. Maybe she was snooping a little.

The door was cracked open, just an inch. Enough to hear movement, a creak of the mattress, a sigh that wasn't quite tired. Brooke had only meant to grab her laundry basket from the hallway. But her foot had stopped. Her body had stayed.

She peeked.

Celia was sitting on the edge of her bed in her slip, back curved, fingers tangled in her hair. Her robe was tossed haphazardly on the floor, a glass of something dark on the nightstand. The afternoon light cut across her thighs, highlighting the soft tension in her muscles. Her bra strap was slipping off one shoulder. She looked... older. Not in a bad way. Just real. Like she'd let the whole day finally hit her all at once.

She hadn't noticed Brooke.

Brooke held her breath.

Celia stood slowly, moving toward the vanity mirror. The slip clung to her thighs like it didn't want to let go. She turned her back to the mirror, angled to check something--Brooke wasn't sure what--but the shape of her body was clear in profile. Soft stomach. Strong arms. Breasts barely contained by lace.

Celia touched her collarbone. Then lower.

Then stopped.

She looked up at herself, and Brooke saw the expression flicker.

Loneliness.

Need.

Shame.

Brooke's chest ached like someone had placed something too heavy on it.

She stepped back from the door, heart pounding, legs suddenly shaky.

She wants me. Not like a mother. Not like family. Not in a way she can admit.

And she hates herself for it.

Brooke fled to her room and locked the door behind her. She lay back on the bed in her oversized hoodie, legs bare, pulse racing. She didn't touch herself. Not yet.

She just whispered, out loud to the empty room, "Fuck."

Because now she couldn't unknow it.

Couldn't pretend.

And worse--she didn't want to.

The smell of burnt toast hit first.

Celia stood at the counter, mechanically scraping blackened crumbs into the sink, her jaw tight, knuckles white on the butter knife. She hadn't slept. Not really. Every time she shut her eyes, Brooke's voice came back.

"I don't know if I'm trying to stop you."

Her knees almost gave out remembering it.

Behind her, bare feet padded in slow across the tile.

"Hey," Brooke said, too softly.

Celia didn't turn. "Hey."

She felt Brooke's presence like a second sun behind her. Warming her back. Threatening to expose her.

Brooke moved to the fridge like it was any other morning. Pajama shorts riding high, tank top braless, nipples just faintly visible beneath the thin fabric. She pulled out orange juice, set it on the counter, stood there staring at it like she forgot what it was for.

Silence pulsed between them.

Celia cleared her throat. "You hungry?"

Brooke shrugged. "Kinda."

"I burned the toast."

"I like it that way," Brooke said. Then, quieter: "Sometimes."

Celia finally turned. Their eyes met--just for a second too long. Brooke's hair was a mess. Her lips were dry. She looked young, and beautiful, and dangerous in that sleepy, undone way.

Celia's hands clenched around the edge of the counter. "About last night..."

Brooke held her breath. Here it was. The moment. The breach.

But then Celia shook her head, laughing dryly, too loud, too fake. "Forget it. I was tired. Drunk. Stupid."

Brooke's face didn't change. Not at first. Just her eyes--just a flicker of something bitter and bruised.

"You weren't drunk," she said evenly.

Celia didn't answer.

Brooke opened the cabinet, pulled out a glass, poured the juice. Her hand trembled just slightly. She didn't drink it. She just stood there, holding it, staring down at the counter like maybe it would speak for her.

"I didn't sleep," she said.

Celia's throat closed. "Me either."

More silence.

A bird sang outside. The toaster clicked empty. The smell of carbon clung to the air.

Brooke turned slowly, leaned against the counter across from her. Now they were facing each other, two feet of tile and a hundred feet of guilt between them.

"I think," Brooke said, her voice so soft it barely made it across the room, "we're past pretending."

Celia's eyes fluttered closed. Her fingers curled.

"I know."

But that was all. No more. Not yet.

Brooke finally sipped her juice, eyes still on Celia over the rim. Her voice was light when she spoke again, almost teasing.

"Don't burn the next batch."

Celia almost laughed. Almost cried.

Instead, she turned back to the sink and started over. Toast. Coffee. Silence.

And the weight of every word they didn't say hung in the air like perfume.

The front door slammed just after six.

"Hey," Doug called, his voice cheerful, a little out of breath like he'd jogged up the porch steps. "Anyone home?"

Celia froze at the stove, wooden spoon suspended mid-stir. Her heart spiked--but not from joy. From panic. From guilt. From the sudden need to compose.

"In the kitchen!" she called back, too bright.

Brooke was already retreating up the stairs, hoodie sliding down one bare shoulder, a ghost by the time he stepped into view. Celia caught the sound of her bedroom door clicking shut.

Doug kissed Celia's cheek in passing. It landed somewhere near her jaw. Quick. Functional. Like brushing his teeth. He smelled like sweat and gas station coffee.

"Smells good. What is it?"

"Pasta," she said. Her voice was thin. "With lemon. You used to like that."

He grunted something vaguely affirmative and disappeared down the hall toward the TV. Shoes still on.

Celia stood there another moment, stirring the sauce even though it didn't need stirring, even though it was already done. Her body was buzzing, desperate to be noticed. Seen. Touched.

Dinner was eaten in front of the Phillies game. Doug talked about traffic, about someone at the office getting fired, about needing to renew his Costco membership. Celia nodded at all the right times. She didn't say a word about midnight bread. About burning toast. About the way her legs still ached from holding herself back.

He didn't notice.

Not the tension in her shoulders. Not the silence in her mouth. Not the way she flinched when his hand brushed hers reaching for a napkin.

Later, in bed, she curled against him.

Just... testing.

Just offering.

Her fingers moved lightly across his back, tracing the curve of his shoulder, drifting under his shirt. Not urgent. Not asking for much.

He didn't move.

Didn't respond.

Just let out a long, even breath and turned onto his side, back to her.

Celia stared at the ceiling.

One hand rested against the empty place between them. The cotton sheets were cool, untouched.

She felt it. The shift. Not like something had broken just now--but like it had broken long ago, and she was only now feeling the shape of it. The hollow. The absence.

Something inside her folded in on itself.

She died a little.

Not all at once. Not the dramatic kind of death. Just that slow, aching dimming. The kind that makes you ache to be reckless. The kind that makes a girl in a tank top and bare legs seem like a lit match in a gas-drenched room.

Celia turned her face into the pillow and closed her eyes.

She didn't cry.

But she didn't sleep either.

The house was quiet. Summer-lazy. Dust motes drifted in the hallway light, slow and indifferent. Brooke had wandered out of her room barefoot, intent on snacks or silence or maybe just anything to take her mind off the way her skin felt too tight lately. Every step felt like trespassing.

Then she heard it.

Soft.

Staggered.

The creak of a mattress. A breath--not a sigh, not a yawn. Lower. Private.

Brooke froze mid-step, one hand against the wall.

Celia's door was mostly closed. Just a crack of light along the floor. The faint shuffle of sheets. Another sound--a low, bitten-off moan. God, it was her. Her stepmother. Alone. Mid-afternoon. Touching herself.

Brooke's pulse kicked up hard, throat dry in an instant.

She should've turned around. Walked away.

But she didn't.

She stood there--horrified, fascinated, on the edge of something she couldn't name. Couldn't resist.

Another breath, sharp this time. And her name. Not fully spoken--just a whisper, like a thought slipping out too loud.

"... Brooke."

The hallway swayed under her feet.

It could've been a coincidence. Could've been a dream, a fantasy, a reflex of a mind unraveling. But it wasn't.

Brooke's eyes fluttered closed. She could picture it too easily--Celia half-curled on the bed, slip rucked up, hand between her thighs, eyes shut tight and mouth parted. Hating herself for it. Needing it anyway.

The mattress groaned. The rhythm changed. Quicker now. Desperate.

Brooke backed away one step. Two. Every part of her screamed to stay, to press closer, to see.

But she knew--knew--if she opened that door, it would end everything.

No more pretending.

No more walls.

And she wasn't ready for the aftermath. For the weight of it. For the destruction.

She turned and fled to her room, shut the door too quietly.

Curled into a ball under her covers, fully dressed, fully shaking.

She didn't touch herself.

Not this time.

Not with Celia's voice still echoing in her skull. Not with her own name moaned like that.

She just laid there and waited for her heartbeat to slow. It didn't.

Celia was already there.

Back to the sink, mug half-full in one hand, other hand braced against the counter like she needed it to stay upright. Her hair was up, messily. She wore leggings and an old T-shirt that clung too much at the chest, and Brooke couldn't unsee it.

Brooke stepped in barefoot, hoodie zipped halfway. Her pulse kicked hard. Her body remembered--that voice through the wall, the sounds, her name like a secret slipped into the dark.

Celia turned at the sound. Her face changed when she saw Brooke. Just a flicker, but it was there. Eyes wide. Lips parting. Then shut again.

They stared at each other.

"Hey," Brooke said. Her voice cracked.

Celia nodded. "Morning."

But it wasn't. It wasn't just morning. It was the morning after.

And the air between them? Laced. With memory. With things not said. With the echo of her name, whispered on a moan, burned into the walls.

Neither of them moved.

Brooke crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly cold. "Celia..."

She couldn't finish.

Celia exhaled, heavy. "You heard me."

Brooke flinched. She didn't want to lie. Couldn't.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I heard you."

Silence.

Celia looked away. Her fingers clenched the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I've been trying so hard--"

"I know."

"I'm married," she said, like a confession. Like she needed to remind herself.

Brooke stepped forward once, just a little closer, not too much. "You don't even look at him anymore."

Celia's face crumpled, then smoothed. "That doesn't make this okay."

"I didn't say it did."

More silence.

Then Brooke said the hardest thing of all:

"I want you to touch me."

Celia closed her eyes. Like the words hurt. Like they lit her on fire.

"I know," she whispered.

She turned, finally, fully, facing Brooke now. The mug trembled in her hand. Her eyes were glassy, desperate.

"I want to," she said. "Every second. I think about it every night."

Brooke swallowed. "Last night, you--"

"I know what I said. I know what you heard." She shook her head, furious at herself. "But if I touch you... if I let myself... there's no going back."

Brooke nodded, tears stinging, but she didn't let them fall. "I know."

And they stood there, across the tile, breathless and breaking, both wanting, neither moving.

Celia set the mug down. Walked past Brooke. Not touching. Not brushing.

But as she passed, she whispered:

"I dream of you."

Then she was gone.

Brooke didn't chase her.

She just stood there in the kitchen, shaking, her name still echoing in Celia's mouth.

The water was too hot.

Brooke stood under the spray with her eyes closed, forehead pressed to the tile. Steam coiled around her, filling her lungs like confession. Her hoodie lay crumpled on the floor. She hadn't bothered to lock the door.

She wasn't afraid of being walked in on.

She was afraid of being alone.

The water hissed over her skin, trailing down the backs of her thighs, between her legs, across her chest. Her nipples tightened, not from cold, not from the water, but from thought.

Celia.

Celia at the sink, not touching her. Celia whispering, I dream of you. Celia in bed, hand between her legs, biting down her moans, saying her name.

God.

Brooke let her hands drift up her own ribs, slow. She didn't cup her breasts. Didn't slip lower. She wasn't here for pleasure. She was here because she needed something to scald the want out of her.

It wasn't working.

She bit her lip and leaned harder into the wall. The ache in her body wasn't just sexual--it was emotional. Starvation. Denial. Like her body had already opened for Celia and was now stunned by the absence.

Her name, her name, in that voice.

Brooke wanted to scream.

She slid down the wall until she was crouched beneath the stream, arms wrapped around her knees, hair dripping in her eyes. Water thundered onto her back, and she wished it could drown the feeling. The burn between her thighs. The rawness in her chest.

She could touch herself.

She almost did.

But the image that came to mind wasn't fantasy--it was truth. Celia's eyes. Celia's restraint. The crack in her voice when she said if I touch you, there's no going back.

That wasn't sexy. That was real.

And real was fucking terrifying.

So Brooke sat there, shivering under boiling water, letting it sting her nipples, her thighs, her throat.

Not crying.

Not moaning.

Just wanting.

Until the water went cold.

And even then, she didn't get out.

The table was set for three.

Doug's plate sat untouched at the far end, steam curling softly from the pasta. A placemat. A napkin. A water glass beading with condensation.

He wasn't coming home. Not yet.

Celia sat at one end, Brooke at the other. The long stretch of wood between them felt like a chasm. An altar. A crime scene.

Neither moved.

The only sound was the tick of the kitchen clock and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Outside, dusk crept up the windows. Inside, everything else stayed still.

Brooke's fork lay beside her plate. Her hands were folded in her lap, too tightly. Her nails bit into her palm.

Celia hadn't taken a single bite.

Her glass was half full. Or half empty. She hadn't touched it either. One hand hovered near it--then pulled away.

Brooke looked up.

Celia was already watching her.

Their eyes locked across the table.

Nothing said.

Everything known.

Celia's lips parted, then closed again. She inhaled like she might speak, but no words came. Just a slow exhale through her nose, a whisper of surrender.

Brooke leaned back in her chair, arms crossed under her breasts. Her throat moved like she'd swallowed something sharp.

Their hunger wasn't for food.

Their hunger was alive--coiling under the table, wrapping around their ankles, crawling up their thighs. It lived in the space between them. In the too-long glances. In the tremble of a lower lip. In the slight, unbearable shift of legs under the tablecloth.

A bead of sweat slipped down the side of Celia's neck.

Brooke watched it.

Celia watched her watch.

Neither one blinked.

Neither one moved.

Doug's chair sat like a ghost between them. A placeholder. A weight. A barrier that could no longer protect them from each other.

No one spoke.

They had already said everything.

Now all that remained was this moment--the longest of their lives--dragging across the dark wood of the table like a blade.

Celia shut the bedroom door with trembling fingers.

Not the one she shared with Doug.

The other one.

The guest room. Safe, neutral ground. The space she retreated to when sleep wouldn't come, when the sheets beside her felt foreign, when her marriage felt like a script she'd long since forgotten the lines to.

She leaned back against the hallway wall just outside, hand still on the doorknob, body shaking like she'd run ten blocks instead of just walking up the stairs.

Her breath came short. Tight. Pulled through her teeth like each inhale cost her something.

The dinner played again in her head--Brooke's eyes. The stillness. The way nothing moved, and yet the whole room was trembling. Celia hadn't touched her food. Couldn't have swallowed if she tried. She could still feel Brooke's gaze, hot on her skin, between her thighs, like it knew.

She pressed her back harder into the wall. Cold. Unforgiving. She needed it. Needed something to counteract the burn running under her skin.

Her pulse throbbed in her throat.

She felt insane.

She felt alive.

She let her head fall back with a soft thud, eyes fluttering shut. One hand drifted to her chest, pressing lightly, trying to still the hammering inside.

Don't go to her door.

Her palm flattened over her sternum, sweat clinging to her skin. Her knees nearly gave. She wasn't sure how much longer she could live like this--unspoken, untouched, known.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

She wanted to knock.

She wanted to run.

She wanted to throw herself down the stairs just to stop feeling like this.

Instead, she slid down the wall inch by inch, until she was sitting on the hardwood floor in the dark hallway, knees to her chest, trembling and silent.

The door to Brooke's room remained closed.

Untouched.

But just knowing she was behind it--bare legs curled under the covers, maybe staring at the ceiling, maybe thinking the same awful, perfect things--

It was too much.

And still, Celia stayed there. Frozen. Breathing like every exhale might betray her.

She wouldn't move.

Not yet.

But god, she wanted to.

The door clicked shut behind her like a verdict.

Brooke stood in the center of her bedroom, the light from her desk lamp casting shadows along the ceiling. She was still in her dinner clothes--barefoot, no bra, the hem of her tank top riding up her ribs. Her body was tight, electric, like she'd been holding something in for hours.

She pulled her shirt off slowly.

Let it fall.

Then slid her shorts down her legs, stepping out of them with careful grace, like shedding skin.

Now she stood in nothing but panties. Lacy, pale blue, half sheer. She didn't pick them for Celia. Not exactly. But not not for her, either.

She turned toward the mirror.

There.

There she was.

Small breasts--perfectly shaped, pointed slightly outward, pale skin flushed from dinner tension. Flat stomach, with the faint shadow of ab lines just beneath the surface. Her thighs, strong and lean, kissed the tops of her calves when she shifted. Her hair tumbled wild over one shoulder, neck long, collarbones sharp enough to cut glass.

She looked like a weapon. Like an offering. Like every fucking fantasy anyone's ever had at eighteen and sun-kissed.

Her eyes glittered.

Who wouldn't want this?

She turned, let the panties ride high up her hips. Twisted again, back to front, front to side.

Who wouldn't want this?

Celia saw her. She knew Celia saw her. Heard her. Said her name.

And yet.

She wasn't in the hallway.

She wasn't in the mirror behind her.

She wasn't touching her.

Brooke's fingers curled at her sides, nails digging into her skin.

What's wrong with me?

The question struck like a slap, louder than the silence. It didn't belong there, but it had grown roots.

She dropped her gaze. Watched her chest rise and fall. She was trembling.

Her hand ghosted down her thigh, stopped just short of pressing between her legs.

She couldn't.

Because if Celia touched her--if that ever happened--it couldn't be after she made herself come to this feeling of rejection.

It couldn't be out of bitterness.

She turned away from the mirror. Stepped out of the panties. Climbed into bed without putting anything else on.

No music. No TV. No distractions.

Just her breath. Her heat. Her rage. Her hurt.

Her body was perfect.

But she didn't feel beautiful.

She felt starved.

Footsteps.

Brooke steps out of her room, bare feet on cool wood. A long T-shirt, no bra, hair tangled. Her breath catches.

Celia is already there.

In leggings and an old sweater. No makeup. Eyes puffy from a sleepless night. Her hands are at her sides. She doesn't flinch.

They stop.

They stare.

Not a word.

Not a step.

Just there.

A single beam of sunlight cuts between them from the high window.

The same hallway as always.

But now?

It holds everything.

Breath.

Longing.

Restraint.

Grief.

They don't speak.

They don't touch.

They just look.

And it's unbearable.