Chapter 3: Guilt
The lavender scent from the laundry basket in the corner of Sam’s room was usually soothing. Now it just felt cloying, thick in the warm air. Bella lay on her back, Sam’s weight a familiar comfort on top of her. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, kissing the skin there with wet, open-mouthed urgency. One of his hands was tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip.
She tried to lose herself in it. Tried to focus on the physical rhythm, the way her body naturally responded to his. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation wash over her.
But her mind, traitorous and vivid, didn’t conjure Sam.
It conjured the dark. The crushing, delicious weight of a different body. The feeling of being stretched, filled, completely overwhelmed. A gasp that wasn’t her own echoing in a quiet room. The heat of skin that wasn’t Sam’s under her palms. The memory was so sharp, so visceral, it stole her breath.
A low moan escaped her lips, a little louder than she intended.
Sam took it as encouragement, moving faster. “You okay?” he mumbled against her neck, his voice husky.
“Yeah,” she breathed, the lie automatic. “Just… can I go on top?”
“God, yes,” he said, immediately rolling off her.
The cool air hit her skin. She moved quickly, straddling him, placing her hands flat on his chest. His heart hammered under her palm. He smiled up at her, his brown eyes soft with affection. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes.
It wasn’t Sam’s slim chest under her hands. It was broader, harder. The muscles were defined, taut with a different kind of control. In her mind, she lowered herself slowly, feeling the stretch, the breathtaking fullness. A gasp caught in her throat—a real one, here in Sam’s bed.
She could almost feel the ghost of Joseph’s hands on her waist, steadying her, his quiet intensity surrounding her in the dark. She began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm.
She swirled her hips, rotating them, and felt herself near. She moaned quietly.
Then Sam grabbed her hips, stopping her. He lifted her up and thrust hard into her. “Bella.” he groaned.
He didn’t stop her, her let her swirl her hips.
She opened her eyes. She matched his thrusting, meeting him, and for a second it felt different. His grip was firm, possessive, his face a blur of pleasure above her.
Her eyes flew open. She was here with Sam who loved her, and she was…
She grabbed his face, pulling him into her shoulder, hiding her face. She couldn’t look at him. Sam was groaning. “I’m gonna cum.” he said, thrusting faster. He came in the condom, slowing his thrusts, and pulled out of her.
He collapsed beside her, breathing hard into the quiet room. “That was amazing,” he panted, turning to kiss her shoulder. “I missed you.”
“It was,” she whispered to the ceiling. “I missed you too.” She wasn’t lying with one part.
She slipped out of bed. “Gonna wash up,” she murmured, not waiting for a reply.
The bathroom light was too bright. It showed everything—the flush on her skin, the faint redness on her hips from Sam’s grip. She splashed cold water on her face, the droplets tracing paths like tears she couldn’t shed. Her reflection in the mirror looked strange, like a girl wearing her face.
She could still hear the thud-thud-thud of fists on leather from the basement. She saw the sweat on his neck, the raw, split skin on his knuckles as he wiped them on his shirt. Doesn’t matter, he’d said.
Back in the bedroom, Sam was already half-asleep, smiling drowsily. “Come back,” he mumbled, patting the space beside him.
She slid in, letting him curl around her, his arm heavy across her stomach. His breathing evened out into sleep within minutes.
Bella stared at the crooked photo on the nightstand—the three of them at the beach last summer, Sam laughing, Joseph smiling quietly behind them, her own face tilted toward the sun.
Joseph laid awake staring at his ceiling.
The shadows from the streetlight outside painted moving shapes he didn’t try to name. His body was a live wire, strung too tight. Every sound from the house—the groan of a pipe, the sigh of the furnace—was amplified.
He closed his eyes.
He felt her on top of him, swirling her hips. The memory wasn’t a gentle thing. It was an ambush. The exact weight of her, the desperate grind of her hips, the hitched sound of her breathing. The dark had been a blanket, hiding their sin, making it feel like the only real thing in the world.
He remembered her head tilting back, her hands fisting in his hair, a gasp, her words. “Fuck, yes I’m cuming”
He opened his eyes, a harsh breath escaping him. He ignored what his body wanted to do. The urge was a raw, physical punch, a demand for release that was about more than physiology. It was about rewriting the present, about replacing the quiet of this sterile room with that specific, devastating heat.
He threw the covers back. The cool air did nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. His knuckles ached, a dull, honest pain. He pressed his thumbs into the swollen skin, welcoming the sharper sting. This pain he deserved. This pain made sense.
The house was so quiet. He hated it. In the silence, all he could hear was the echo of a gasp that wasn’t meant for him.
He stood and walked to his door. He didn’t open it. He just leaned his forehead against the cool wood, listening to the absolute silence of the hallway. Somewhere, under the same roof, she was sleeping beside his brother. The fact was a stone in his throat.
He turned and looked at his rumpled bed, a prison of his own making.
Sleep never came. He watched the digital clock on his nightstand flip from 3:27 to 4:30, each minute a slow torture. He gave up.
He pulled on black running shorts and silent sneakers, easing his door shut. He went outside. The air was cool, refreshing, a physical slap that felt like mercy. He started to run.
He set a slow pace, his breath clouding in the predawn dark. His feet pounded the asphalt in a rhythm that matched the one in his head from the basement bag. He ran past dark houses and under yellow streetlights, pushing his body until the mental noise faded into a blank, burning static.
He ran until his lungs screamed and his legs felt like lead. By the time he was back, the sun was starting to rise, a pale pink streak over the roof of his house. He looked at his phone, his chest heaving. He had run for an hour and a half.
Bella woke up. Sam was fast asleep, a quiet snore bubbling from his lips. The room felt too warm, the memory of last night clinging to her skin. She needed air.
She slid out from under the sheets and headed downstairs, the wooden steps cool under her bare feet. The house was perfectly still. She padded into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with tap water.
She heard the door open behind her, the subtle suck of the seal breaking. She turned.
He walked into the kitchen shirtless, sweating, breathing slightly heavy. His black running shorts were slung low on his hips, the waistband damp. A sheen of sweat covered his chest and stomach, highlighting every defined line of his torso. Her eyes betrayed her, tracing the path of a drop as it slid down his sternum.
He looked up, seeing her. She was in a red silk tank top and red silk shorts, the thin fabric leaving little to the early morning light. His eyes betrayed him, a quick, hungry scan he couldn’t stop. He shook his head, a sharp, minute motion, and walked to a cupboard.
He grabbed a glass.
“Hey.” He said, not looking at her again.
“Hey,” she echoed, her voice soft. She clutched her glass. “Long run?”
“Needed it.” He leaned against the counter. He closed his eyes. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either.” The admission slipped out. She saw his jaw tighten.
Silence stretched, filled with the hum of the refrigerator and their shared, restless energy. His bright blue eyes found hers again. They were bloodshot, tired. They held a question he wouldn’t ask.
“The party’s tonight,” he said, stating it like a sentence.
“I know.”
“Sam’s excited.” He said his brother’s name like a ward, a charm to keep the dark at bay. It didn’t work.
“He is.” She sipped her water, just for something to do. “Are you… will you be there?”
“It’s my house.” His voice was flat. He looked at her, and the flatness cracked for a second, revealing the sheer, exhausting conflict beneath. “Where else would I go?”
She leaned against the counter looking at him. The cold granite seeped through the thin silk of her shorts. He looked at her, his blue eyes no longer just tired but stripped raw. He took a step closer. An inch of space between them.
She could feel the heat coming off his skin, smell the salt and clean sweat from his run. His breathing was still uneven. Her own throat was tight. The air in the kitchen changed, growing dense and difficult to pull into her lungs.
Her fingers curled against the cold countertop behind her.
He leaned in, his hands planting on the counter on either side of her hips, caging her in. He reached past her, his bare arm brushing against her silk-covered stomach. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through her.
He turned on the tap. The water rushed out, loud in the silent kitchen. He filled his glass slowly, his head bent next to hers. His body was nearly against hers, the heat of his chest radiating inches from her skin. She could see the individual droplets of sweat on his temple, the rapid pulse in his throat.
He turned the tap off. The silence was absolute.
When he pulled back, he looked at her, his face an inch from hers. His breath, still ragged from his run, warmed her lips. His bright blue eyes were a storm. She could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the dark stubble along his jaw. Every detail was magnified.
She didn’t breathe. The world had narrowed to this inch of charged air, the cold counter at her back, the heat of him at her front. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. She remembered its exact pressure, its taste.
His gaze dropped to her lips. He couldn’t help it; his thumb came up, pulling her bottom lip down gently.
The calloused pad of his thumb was rough against the softness of her lip. It was a question, a confession, a violation of every boundary they’d shattered and tried to rebuild. She didn’t pull away. A sharp, silent gasp caught in her throat.
He leaned in ever so slightly. She did the same. Their breaths ghosted over each other's lips. Neither could look away.
The space between them vanished into a trembling, magnetic field. His eyes were oceans she could drown in. Her own fluttered shut. The world was the sound of his ragged breath, the scent of salt and effort, the terrifying promise of his mouth.
Her lips brushed his.
It was the barest contact, a whisper of skin against skin. He didn’t lean in to close the gap. His lips brushed hers, just as faintly. She didn’t lean in either. They hovered in that impossible space, sharing the same air, trembling on the same precipice.
He let out a soft groan. He was fighting the urge, every muscle in his body rigid with the effort of holding still.
Her lips were a ghost against his, a suggestion. The silk of her top brushed his sweat-damp chest. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart, or maybe it was his own, a wild drumming against his ribs.
He knew he was hard. The awareness was a brutal, physical fact. He closed his eyes for a moment. He let out a shaky breath.
The sound was ragged, uneven, a fracture in his control. Bella pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed as if in pain. His breathing had changed—it was shallow, hitched, a struggle against some invisible tide.
She wondered what was wrong. “Joseph?” Her voice was a whisper in the charged air.
He didn’t open his eyes. He just shook his head, a tight, desperate motion. His hands, still braced on the counter, were white-knuckled. The muscles in his jaw worked. He was holding onto something, or holding himself back, with every fiber of his being.
His blue eyes were glassy, storm-tossed. He looked utterly wrecked. “I can’t do this,” he breathed, the words raw. “I can’t be this guy.”
“What guy?” she asked, though she knew. The guy who betrays his brother. The guy in the dark.
His eyes were shut tight, his forehead nearly touching hers.
He felt himself strain against his shorts. He couldn’t answer her. He dropped his head down.
The movement was pure defeat. His breath hot and ragged against the thin silk of her tank top. She could feel the tremble in his arms where they caged her against the counter. It wasn’t from his run.
She looked at him, at the struggle etched into every line of his bowed back. His head dropping, that simple surrender to the weight of it all, made something deep in her stomach clench and heat. It was a sharp, liquid pull, entirely separate from her guilt.
Then he moved.
He pushed back from the counter so suddenly the air rushed between them, cold and shocking. He turned his back to her, his shoulders heaving as he dragged a hand through his damp hair. The distance felt violent, a physical tear.
She set her glass down with a quiet click that echoed in the silent kitchen. She walked past him, feeling his gaze like a physical weight between her shoulder blades all the way to the stairs.