It should have been just once

5: Like a sister

Harriet~

By the time we finish eating, the whole house smells like onions and pepper and something faintly citrusy that must’ve been on Devon’s hands. He barely speaks while we wash up.

He just nods when I pass him a plate, grunts something that sounds like thanks, and keeps his gaze fixed anywhere except on me. It’s ridiculous because he’s seen every part of me, dragged orgasm out of me with a stranger’s ease, but now he can’t even look at my face.

Fine. Two can play that game.

The night settles slowly around the house. I hear the old pipes groan when he goes down the hallway to brush his teeth, hear his footsteps soften like he’s trying not to disturb me even though I’m the only other human inside this grey, too-quiet house.

I take my toiletries to the bathroom, partly because I want to shower and partly because I’m avoiding the moment where we both lie in that room pretending the memory of last night doesn’t hover between us like smoke.

I turn the water on hot. Steam fogs up the glass quickly and I stare at my reflection while my clothes slide off piece by piece. My skin is still dotted with faint, healed love bites where Von—Devon couldn’t help himself. The memories flash bright behind my eyes and my thighs clench involuntarily.

He said it was a mistake.

He said we’d never do it again.

But he also said my p***y was exquisite.

And my stupid mind keeps replaying it, his voice, his hands.

The way he held me after.

I step into the shower, tilt my head under the hot stream, try to wash the thoughts away, but they stick and they multiply.

By the time I’m done and I tie my towel around my body, my legs feel weak not from the hot water but from everything else.

The hallway is colder. The light from the room spills out weakly, warm and yellow. I take a breath, grip the towel, and walk in.

Devon is standing by the dresser, back facing me, wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey sweatpants. His hair is damp, he showered after me, or before me, I don’t know and he’s pulling a worn T-shirt over his head.

He turns at the exact moment I step inside.

His eyes drag down my body before he can stop himself.

Slow.

Lingering.

Hurt written all over his face like desire is something he isn’t allowed to feel.

And then it hits him fast and hard because the bulge in his pants grows, straining against the fabric, and he curses under his breath and jerks his head away like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

“f**k Harriet.”

He presses a hand to his face, the other to his hip, like he’s trying to hide the fact that his body reacts to me on instinct.

I freeze. The air thickens so fast my lungs forget their job.

He steps backwards.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice rough. “I… I didn’t know you were done. Let me just…”

And he bolts.

Literally runs out of the room like the devil is chasing him.

The bathroom tap turns on two seconds later. Loud. Violent. He’s definitely splashing cold water on his crotch. The image is absurd Devon, who f****d me like he’d been starving, now hiding from a towel-wearing girl like he’s nineteen and inexperienced.

I sit on the bed, towel still on, heart sprinting.

He returns ten minutes later, face slightly flushed, hair wet, shirt clinging to his chest because he didn’t bother drying properly.

He looks too normal. Like he didn’t just get an erection looking at me.

He climbs into his side of the bed without a word.

I tighten my towel, swallow, then force myself to stand and go change into the only thing I have clean a thin pair of cotton shorts and a tank top that does nothing to hide that I’m not wearing a bra.

His eyes flick up the moment the mattress dips under my weight.

He sees everything and pretends none of it affects him.

I lie stiffly on my side, facing away, staring at the wall I used to plaster with stickers before I left this house behind.

Minutes pass.

The silence grows unbearable.

Then his voice comes low, quiet and careful.

“You can’t sleep like that.”

I pause. “…Like what?”

“Stiff.”

A shift of fabric. “Harriet, I know you. You need pressure to fall asleep.”

I tense. “Dev—”

“You always liked cuddling. Even when you were younger. You can’t rest unless someone’s next to you.”

My breath catches because he’s right. And because it means he remembers, in detail, the things I forgot he once knew about me.

He speaks slower now. “Come closer.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “That’s not a good idea.”

“It’s just sleep,” he whispers. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

I inhale shakily. “Just this once.” I recite my holy mantra.

The mattress dips when he opens his arm. I inch back until my spine brushes his chest. His warmth folds around me subtle at first, then tighter when he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all evening.

He smells like mint and steam and the familiar Devon scent I’d buried for years.

His arm slides naturally around my waist, palm warm against my stomach, fingers splayed in a way that tells me he’s fighting the urge to hold me tighter.

My breathing slows.

For a moment, I forget what we did.

Forget everything except the weight of his breath against the back of my neck.

Sleep comes quickly.

Until it doesn’t.

An hour later, I wake up because something is pressed against me something warm, heavy, and unmistakable.

My face is buried in Devon’s neck and my leg is hitched over his waist.

His hand is gripping my thigh like he pulled me closer in his sleep.

And he’s hard again.

His d**k is thick and pressed right against the curve of my ass.

My throat goes dry.

I try to shift away but the moment I move, his grip tightens.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs. Half-asleep, voice deep, honest in a way he isn’t when awake. “Just stay.”

My pulse jumps.

“Devon…”

He breathes against my temple. “If you weren’t…”

He pauses, swallows.

“If you weren’t the closest thing I have to a sister, we’d be f*****g again right now.”

Heat rushes so sharply through me I swear I melt into the sheets.

His thumb strokes my thigh absentmindedly, slowly.

My body decides for me. I shift just a little closer, just enough that his erection nudges the inside of my thigh.

He tenses like his whole body shuts down with want.

“Harriet,” he warns.

It should stop me.

It doesn’t.

I roll my hips once, slow, testing, barely a graze but just enough to feel the shape of him.

He inhales sharply. “Don’t do that.”

I do it again.

His hand snaps to my waist, firm, steady, holding me still.

“You’ll hate me in the morning,” he whispers into my hair. “Don’t make me cross that line again.”

“I won’t hate you.”

“You will.” His voice shakes. “You are not thinking right now. It shows.”

I freeze.

He breathes like he’s unraveling.

“We’re not doing anything,” he says finally, voice tight. “We’re just—sleeping. Go back to bed.”

But neither of us moves.

I stay molded against him, pulse racing, body begging for what I already know he wants too.

His hand rubs slow circles on my hip and minutes pass.

Then his grip loosens, his breathing evens out, and he falls asleep holding me like letting go might kill him.

I stay awake longer, staring into the dark, trying to ignore the feeling his words planted inside me:

If I wasn’t like a sister…

We’d be f*****g again.