The next evening the house smelled like garlic bread and red wine. Marcus had cooked again — chicken parmesan, my favorite since I was twelve. We ate at the kitchen table like always, but the air between us felt different tonight. Thicker. Every time our eyes met over the rim of our glasses, something unspoken passed between us. I kept catching him looking at the thin straps of my sundress, at the way the fabric clung to my breasts when I leaned forward. I didn’t adjust it. I wanted him to look.
After dinner we moved to the living room with the rest of the wine. We put on one of those old family movies we used to watch when I was little — the one with the talking dog and the road trip. I curled up on the couch beside him, closer than I probably should have. My bare thigh pressed against h
