The Sin Between Us

There’s something about Jude that has never been simple. It isn’t just that he doesn’t look at me the way other men do. It's how deliberate the difference feels. Most men look like they’ve already decided what they want the moment their eyes land on you. There’s no hesitation, no restraint. It’s careless. Predictable. Jude is the opposite. When his gaze finds me, it feels accidental. Like something that slipped through before he could stop it. And every single time, there’s that same quiet correction..his eyes shifting away, his expression resetting, like he’s erasing something that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I noticed it years ago. Nineteen, standing in this same house, watching him from across a room filled with people. I’d caught it then…the almost-look, the immediate retreat. Back then, I dismissed it. I told myself it was nothing. That I was reading too much into small things because I didn’t know better. Now I do know better. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because at twenty-two, standing in my aunt’s living room in a dress I only bought because it was cheap and didn’t need ironing, I can’t pretend I don’t see it anymore. And I definitely can’t pretend I don’t feel it. The party is too loud. Music thumps from outside, bass heavy enough to vibrate through the walls. Uncle Mike has outdone himself, like he always does….too many speakers, too many drinks, too many people talking over each other. Laughter spills in through the open doors, bright and careless. I should be out there. Instead, I stay inside. My feet are killing me, my head is crowded, and I don’t have the energy to act like I’m having fun. Not after the week I’ve had. Not after standing in a conference room while my manager picked apart my work in front of everyone like it was nothing. I haven’t stopped replaying it since. So I do what I do best…I disappear without actually leaving. I linger near the drinks table, refilling my cup slowly, watching people instead of talking to them. Nodding when someone catches my eye. Smiling just enough to avoid questions. It works. No one looks too closely. No one notices that I’m barely there. Until… My heel catches. It happens fast. Too fast to fix. The edge of the rug near the hallway snags the back of my shoe, and suddenly I’m off balance, tipping forward with that awful, sinking certainty that there’s no recovering from this. My stomach drops. I don’t even have time to brace properly.. Then something solid stops me. A hand at my waist…firm….unhesitating. Another arm across me, pulling me back before gravity can finish what it started. I collide with him instead of the floor. For a second, I don’t even process who it is. All I register is warmth, steadiness, the sharp shift from falling to being held. Then I breathe in.. And recognize him. Jude. My face is too close to his neck, my hand pressed flat against his chest where I must have grabbed onto him without thinking. His shirt is warm beneath my palm, the fabric slightly rough, his heartbeat steady..too steady. Like this isn’t affecting him at all. “Wow,” I let out a shaky laugh, instinct kicking in immediately. “That would’ve been dramatic.” I try to push myself upright, already embarrassed, already ready to turn it into a joke. “Sorry…too much wine….” I move. He doesn’t. For a moment, I don’t understand. Then I realize.. He’s still holding me. Not loosely. Not like someone who caught me and forgot to let go. Deliberately. His hand is still at my waist, fingers firm against the fabric of my dress. His other arm hasn’t dropped yet. There’s no urgency in him, no awkward rush to step back. Just stillness. And it changes everything. The room keeps moving around us..music, laughter, voices…but it all feels distant now. Muted. Like I’ve stepped into something separate from everyone else. I become painfully aware of every point of contact. The heat of his hand. The solid line of his body behind mine. The way my breathing has gone uneven. And him… Completely, unnervingly still. Like letting go is a decision he hasn’t made yet. Then, abruptly, he does. His hands fall away, the space between us opening too quickly. The moment snaps in half. I step back immediately, smoothing down my dress, tucking my hair behind my ear….small, unnecessary movements just to give myself something to do. “That rug is actually dangerous,” I say, forcing a light tone. “Someone should really fix that.” It sounds too loud. Too normal. He doesn’t match it. For a brief second, he looks at me. Not the careful, controlled glance I’m used to. This is different. It’s direct. Unfiltered. And there’s something in it..something sharp and complicated and gone almost as quickly as it appears. Then he turns away. Just like that. Like nothing happened. And for the rest of the night. He doesn’t look at me again. Not once. I know because I keep checking. I hate that I keep checking. Across the room when he’s talking to my dad, nodding along like he’s completely present. Through the open doors when he’s outside laughing with Mike, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen directed at me. And later. At the drinks table. He walks in, reaches for a glass, and I’m right there. Close enough that our shoulders almost brush. He sees me. I know he does. But all he says is, “Excuse me.” Polite. Distant. Empty. Like I’m nothing more than someone in his way. He pours his drink. Leaves. And I stand there, gripping my cup too tightly, something uncomfortable settling under my skin. Not embarrassment. Not exactly. Something heavier. By the time it’s nearing ten, I’ve almost convinced myself it doesn’t matter. That I imagined the intensity of that moment. That it meant less to him than it did to me. Jude has always been like this..quiet, withdrawn, a little removed from everything. This is just who he is. It has to be. People start leaving soon after. The house empties in waves, the noise fading into something softer. My mom moves through the kitchen, cleaning. My dad stays outside, talking. I help where I can, stacking cups, clearing surfaces..keeping busy. Until I walk back into the living room and see him. Alone. Jacket on. Keys in hand. Ready to leave. I stop. I should let him go. I know I should. Instead, I hear myself say, “Are you angry with me?” The words hang in the air, heavier than I expected. He pauses. Then slowly turns. And when he looks at me this time.. There’s no distance. No restraint. It hits harder than I’m prepared for. His jaw is tight, his expression controlled but not calm. There’s something there..something restrained, something unresolved..and it makes my chest tighten in response. “No,” he says. Quiet. Certain. “You’ve been avoiding me,” I press, softer now. “I’ve been talking to people.” “Everyone except me.” The silence stretches. Too long. I feel it creeping in, that familiar regret, the urge to take it back, to laugh it off before it becomes something bigger than I can manage. Then.. “Hyacinth.” My name. Nothing else. But the way he says it… Low. Careful. Like it means more than it should. I don’t move. Don’t speak. I just wait. My heart is beating too fast now, too loud in my chest. There’s something building here, something fragile and dangerous at the same time. He opens his mouth. Stops. His grip tightens around his keys, the small movement sharp enough to say everything he isn’t. Whatever he was about to say. He decides against it. Swallows it down. “Goodnight,” he says instead. And just like that… It’s over. He walks out. The door closes. And I’m left standing there, the silence pressing in around me like it knows something I don’t. That night, I didn't sleep. I lie in the guest room, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything in fragments that refuse to settle. The fall. His hands. The way he held on. The look on his face. The way he said my name.. Like it was the start of something he didn’t trust himself to finish. I tell myself it’s nothing. I repeat it until it almost sounds true. Until My phone lights up. 2:55 a.m. His name. A message. Are you still up? My breath catches. Every logical thought I have lines up immediately…don’t answer, don’t engage, don’t step into something you don’t understand. But logic has never been faster than impulse. Yes. Sent before I can stop it. The typing dots appear almost instantly. Disappear. Come back. I stare at them like they’re a pulse, like they mean something. Like they’re proof he’s still there, on the other side of this silence, thinking about what to say next. Then.. Nothing. No message. No explanation. Just an empty screen. I lie there in the dark, phone still in my hand, staring at the absence of words. Thinking about him one floor above me. Awake. Holding his phone. Choosing silence. Again.