The Line Between Us Ch. 02

Chapter Two

In Her Hands

She lay still, his breath soft against her shoulder, the weight of him still clinging to her skin like a second sheet. The room was quiet now. Almost sacred. Their bodies had stilled, but her mind hadn't. Because this wasn't the first time.

Not really.

It had been building for months-quiet and slow, like water finding cracks in stone.

She noticed it in the way he looked at her longer than he should've. In the way he touched her shoulder as he passed behind her-just enough to be polite, but a second too long to be innocent.

She'd told herself it was her imagination. That boys his age were awkward, hormonal, clumsy with affection.

But sometimes, it wasn't him.

Sometimes, it was her.

The way her heart sped up when he walked into a room. The way she felt a twinge of something-wrong and electric-when he hugged her and his hands settled just a little too low on her back.

She'd always let it go. Laughed it off. Redirected. Because nothing had ever happened.

Until that night.

It had been late. Quiet. She couldn't sleep.

She padded down to the kitchen in a robe and socks, expecting silence.

But he was already there-sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets, hoodie pulled over his head, hands wrapped around a cup of something long gone cold.

He looked up, startled. Then looked away just as fast.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked gently.

He shook his head.

She crossed to the counter, filled a glass with water, and sat on the floor beside him without asking. Close, but not touching. Just there.

It took a few minutes for either of them to speak. When he did, his voice was quiet, brittle around the edges.

"I got into it with Dad."

She said nothing. Just waited.

"I don't know," he muttered. "Everything I do lately pisses him off. It's like... I don't fit here anymore."

She turned to look at him then. And maybe that was the moment-because when his eyes met hers, they didn't flick away. They just stayed there, full of something she hadn't seen before.

Pain. Loneliness. And something else.

Something she wasn't ready to name.

"You do fit," she said, reaching out and rubbing his back. "You're just... figuring out where."

He didn't pull away.

So she didn't stop.

Her hand moved slowly, rhythmically. A comfort gesture. Nothing more. But her heart was pounding, and she didn't know why. Or maybe she did. Her fingers drifted to his hair. Soft. Familiar. Her other hand stayed on his back, drawing slow circles

like she had when he was smaller, when this kind of touch didn't carry weight.

But it did now.

And when he tilted his head to look up at her again, something in her chest fluttered hard enough to steal her breath.

She should have looked away.

Should have said something safe. Something maternal.

But she didn't.

Because it wasn't just him anymore.

When he leaned in, it wasn't confident. It wasn't smooth. It was hesitant-like he didn't believe he was doing it, like he fully expected her to stop him.

She didn't.

Their lips touched-barely.

And then again.

And then it wasn't tentative anymore. It was hungry, messy, unpracticed. Years of closeness boiling over in a single breath. His hands found her waist. Hers clutched at his hoodie like she was falling.

Their mouths moved fast, desperate, like they were trying to consume something they'd both spent too long starving for.

She felt herself unraveling. Her robe had fallen open at some point-she wasn't even sure when.

But now, in the space between them, the soft fabric had slipped enough for him to see the edge of her breast, the curve of her stomach, skin she usually hid without thinking.

He froze.

And she should have reached for it. Should have pulled it closed, laughed it off, said something about modesty or boundaries or what-would-people-think.

But she didn't move.

Because her body didn't feel modest.

It felt alive.

And his eyes on her didn't feel wrong.

They felt... wanted.

She told herself it was just a moment. Just curiosity. Just comfort taken one step too far.

But she didn't cover herself.

She let him see her.

And when he reached out, it wasn't greedy. It was reverent. He cupped her breast like it might disappear. Kissed it like it meant something. Like she meant something.

Her hand drifted lower. Found him hard beneath his jeans.

She paused.

They both did.

But neither of them stopped.

His mouth moved to her neck. Her shoulder. Her chest.

She laid back on the kitchen floor like it was a bed and not tile, and he followed her down.

She spread her legs without meaning to. And when his fingers touched her-lightly, uncertainly-it felt like a question.

Her breath answered it.

He touched her slowly, then with more confidence. She arched against his hand. Bit her lip. Fought not to say his name. He kissed her stomach, her hip, the inside of her thigh-but didn't go lower.

Didn't need to.

She came against his fingers, hips stuttering, one hand clamped over her mouth to hold in the sound.

And then everything went quiet.

He stayed over her, watching her, breathing hard.

She could still feel him-hard and urgent through his jeans-and even though she'd just come, her need hadn't gone quiet. If anything, it had settled deeper. He hadn't asked for anything. Hadn't moved. Had barely breathed.

But she had.

And she couldn't unfeel what she felt.

Her hand moved again-slow, certain. She pressed it against him, felt the shape of him under the denim. Still so warm. Still so real. Her fingers traced the outline, gentle but deliberate, until his hips twitched beneath her touch.

She looked up.

His face was flushed. Lips parted. Eyes wide and fixed on hers.

But he didn't stop her.

Didn't even flinch.

And that's when something in her cracked.

She sat up, slowly, and reached for his waistband-not just to touch, but to take. Her fingers worked at the button, then the zipper. She watched him the whole time.

He watched her back-but he wasn't confident.

He looked terrified.

Like he didn't know what to do with himself. Like he couldn't believe this was happening. His shoulders were tense. His hands hovered awkwardly near his sides, unsure whether to help or stop or just disappear.

But he didn't move.

Because she wasn't someone he feared.

She was someone he trusted.

So when she tugged at his jeans, he lifted his hips to let her.

No words. Just breath.

And then he was exposed-completely. All of him.

Her eyes dropped, and her breath caught.

He was beautiful. Hard and flushed and vulnerable in a way that made her ache all over again. He shifted under her gaze, self-conscious, almost squirming. But he didn't cover himself.

He let her look.

She reached for him again. Slower this time. Not just curious-entranced.

She took him in her hand. Felt the weight of him. The heat. The pulse.

He let out a sound that made her pulse race-a breathy, involuntary groan that he clearly hadn't meant to let escape.

She stroked him. Once. Twice.

His thighs tensed. His hips lifted.

He was trying to be still. Trying to be good. But she could feel how hard he was holding back.

She moved again, a little faster, a little firmer, and when he gasped-high and shaky-she realized she wanted this just as much as he did.

Wanted to watch him come undone.

Wanted to be the reason.

And when it happened-when he finally gave in-it wasn't quiet.

His breath hitched, and then broke, and then he was cumming in her hand-more than she expected.

More than he probably meant to. Hot, wet release spilled across her fingers and wrist, and a startled gasp left his throat as a final pulse arched higher than either of them anticipated.

She felt it land-warm-just beneath her collarbone.

He went still. Mortified.

She didn't flinch.

She just watched.

Wide-eyed. Quiet.

He was still breathing hard. Still staring at her like the world had tilted sideways.

But all she could think was: she had touched him. All of him. And he had let her.

Not because he was sure.

But because he trusted her.

And now neither of them could go back.

She pulled her robe back together. He stood up without a word. They didn't say goodbye.

She went back upstairs and lay awake the rest of the night with her fingers pressed to her lips, her body still shaking, and her mind repeating the one truth she couldn't outrun:

That hadn't been a mistake.

It had been a beginning.

Her robe was closed now. But beneath it... she still felt it.

A small smear. Dried now. Just under her collarbone.

She hadn't wiped it away.

She'd thought about it. But her hand had stopped halfway to the sink, and for some reason she couldn't explain, she hadn't moved again.

Now, with the sheets pulled to her chin and the room quiet and still, she touched it with two fingers.

She didn't bring them to her lips.

But she thought about it.

And that was enough.