Chapter 2 — Rules We Never Spoke Aloud
410 Words
Elias leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching Mara stir the pasta sauce. He shouldn’t be watching her. He knew that. Every sane part of him screamed to turn away, walk down the hall, pretend he was busy.
But he didn’t.
She moved like she knew he was watching—slow, deliberate, almost taunting. The way her hair fell across her shoulder, the faint curve of her neck, the subtle press of her body as she reached for the spices… it was torture. And he was addicted to it.
“Could you pass me the oregano?” she asked, without looking up.
He handed it over, their fingers brushing for just a moment too long. A jolt went straight through him, and he cursed under his breath. She didn’t flinch. She never did.
“That’s it?” she asked, still not looking at him, voice smooth as silk. “Nothing more?”
He swallowed hard. “Nothing,” he lied. And even as the word left his mouth, he knew it was a lie. Every muscle in him wanted more. More words. More touch. More… everything.
They had rules. Rules they never spoke aloud. Rules that were carved into the air they breathed:
Don’t linger too long in each other’s rooms.
Don’t let your hands brush accidentally.
Don’t say the things you’re thinking.
They broke them anyway. Every day. A glance too long. A joke that cut too deep. A laugh that carried too much meaning. And every time, the walls of their shared house seemed to shrink around them, forcing them closer until it hurt.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said finally, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts.
He nodded, forcing his expression into something neutral, something safe. He was supposed to be the brother. The responsible one. The guard.
Yet, when she turned to grab the bread, her hand brushed his again. He froze, heat blooming in his chest, his pulse hammering like a drum. He wanted to yank away. He wanted to pull her close. He wanted everything he couldn’t have.
And she? She smiled just a little, as if she knew exactly the chaos she was leaving behind.
They were trapped in a game neither of them had rules for.
A game where every move, every word, every accidental touch carried the weight of something they weren’t allowed to name. Something dangerous. Something intoxicating.
And neither of them had the courage to stop.
- Writer
