Dave
1192 Words
Dave
THE house had never felt too small.
Not until Dave moved in.
He was only supposed to stay three months, as a favor to her husband’s colleague. It was only but a harmless arrangement.
He was polite. Quiet. Paid on time.
And beautiful in a way that made her uncomfortable.
He had wide shoulders. A summer-tanned skin. His storm-blue eyes that never stared… until they did. And then they didn’t look away quickly enough.
He was twenty-six.
Laura was forty.
She had told herself the difference meant nothing.
Except it did.
Her husband traveled for work, gone more often than home. His absence had become normal, a silence she learned to fold laundry into, to cook dinner around, to sleep beside without flinching.
Dave filled that silence without trying. He filled the house. With low laughter from the kitchen when she passed. With bare feet on the stairs late at night. With music humming beneath his closed door.
She didn’t seek him out. Not at first, but she began to notice things.
The way he rolled his sleeves to wash dishes. The way his back curved when he lifted things. The way her pulse reacted- a bright, guilty throb- whenever he was near.
He always said, “Good morning, Laura,” in a voice too warm for morning.
She had forgotten what warmth sounded like.
One Friday night, rain smothered the street in silver sheets. Her husband had been gone three weeks. The house creaked with storm and emptiness.
Dave knocked softly on the kitchen archway.
“Is it okay if I make coffee? I didn’t want to wake you.”
She was curled on the couch with a book she hadn’t turned a page of in an hour.
“You wouldn’t have,” she said.
He stepped inside. He was barefoot, his hair damp and his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders. He smelled like rain.
Lightning flashed outside, lighting his profile.
“I never realized thunderstorms make you lonely,” he said casually, filling the kettle.
She swallowed. “They don’t.”
He glanced over, half-smiling.
“No?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but he was suddenly closer, leaning near to reach the top cupboard. Only an inch passed between their bodies.
His arm lifted beside her face.
Her breath caught.
He took down a mug, lowered his arm slowly.
Her heartbeat was a drum.
He didn’t step away immediately.
“Sorry,” he murmured, not sounding sorry at all.
“It’s fine,” she whispered.
But it wasn’t fine.
It was too close.
Too warm. Too much.
He made coffee. She pretended to keep reading. But his presence settled on her skin like heat.
When he finally turned to go, she said without thinking:
“Stay. You don’t have to drink alone.”
He paused. Then came back.
They sat opposite ends of the couch. A safe distance. Coffee between them. Rain beating the roof like fingers.
She asked, “Why thunderstorms?”
He shrugged.
“I grew up with a lot of noise. Silence makes me restless.”
Something inside her turned over.
“I’m the opposite,” she said. “Too much noise makes me lonely.”
“That sounds like a contradiction.”
“It is.”
They smiled at each other, and something softened.
The hours slipped.
The room grew darker, except for the lamp and the storm.
He watched her without hiding it. His attention was unsettling and hungry and young.
She felt… seen.
When lightning flashed again, she noticed his hand near hers on the couch cushion. Not touching. Just close enough that she could feel his warmth.
“I keep expecting your husband to call,” he said quietly.
“He won’t.”
“Doesn’t he worry about you?”
“We stopped worrying about each other a long time ago.”
Daniel stared at her in a way no one had in years.
“You deserve someone who does.”
Her breath trembled. Lightning cracked. Thunder shook the windows.
She didn’t answer.
He set his cup down. Slowly and deliberately. His knee turned toward hers. His whole body oriented to her. Not too close. Not touching.
The tension was a live wire.
“You are too young to say that,” she whispered.
“Age doesn’t decide who pays attention.”
His voice was lower now and rougher.
“You do,” she said.
“I can’t help it.”
He leaned forward slightly. Not touching. Yet every inch closer felt like crossing a line.
“Laura,” he said, her name like a confession, “if I’m out of line, tell me.”
She should have, but she didn’t.
Instead, her hand slid- almost accidental- to rest on the cushion beside his.
He didn’t move.
His breath changed. It became warmer and sharper. The air between them tightened.
“I keep trying not to look at you,” he admitted. “But you make it very hard.”
She swallowed.
“Dave…”
“If you want me to stop, I will.”
She looked down at their hands.
One inch apart.
One inch that felt like a chasm and a bridge at the same time.
“I don’t know what I want,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said, eyes dark, “you do.”
Her pulse answered him.
Lightning flashed. The room was silver for a heartbeat.
He reached.
Slowly and carefully.
His fingers brushed hers.
It was a small contact, but her whole body reacted.
He didn’t take her hand. He just touched her. Lightly. Respectfully. Waiting.
Her ring glinted, but her marriage didn’t.
When she didn’t pull away, his thumb stroked the side of her finger. Barely there. Enough to steal her breath.
The storm roared.
He moved closer.
“Laura,” he murmured, “if I kiss you, I won’t be able to pretend I don’t want more.”
Her eyes lifted to his.
“I’m tired of pretending,” she whispered.
He exhaled— a sound of relief and hunger.
Slowly, he leaned in. Their lips met. Soft and tentative.
A question more than a kiss.
She answered.
Her hand slid into his hair.
His mouth deepened, slow and reverent, tasting of rain and restraint.
No rush. No force. Just hunger.
The kind that had been starved for years.
She broke away first, breathing uneven.
“We shouldn’t,” she said.
“I know.”
His forehead rested against hers.
“But I will think about this tomorrow,” he whispered, “for the rest of the day. The rest of the week.”
She trembled.
“I will too.”
His thumb brushed her jaw.
“Tell me to leave,” he said, voice wrecked.
She didn’t.
But after a long moment, she whispered:
“Goodnight, Dave.”
He closed his eyes.
Opened them.
Stood slowly.
At the hallway, he looked back.
“If you ever want company,” he said softly, “you know where my room is.”
Then he vanished into the dark.
The house had never felt smaller.
And the silence had never been so loud.
- Writer
