Chapter 1: Warmth and Wine
The kitchen light was a tired yellow thing, buzzing more than it should. It painted everything in a sticky, afternoon kind of gloom, even though it was past nine at night. James traced the cracks in the red-and-white linoleum with his socked toe. The air was thick with smells that didn’t belong together: the sharp cinnamon from last night’s chili, the sour note of old wine from the two glasses on the counter, the clean chemical sting of dish soap.
And her.
Belen hummed along to a reggaeton beat from her phone speaker, her hips swaying in a small, unconscious circle as she scrubbed a pot. She was wearing those black spandex shorts—the ones that looked like they were painted on—and a loose tank top that slipped off one shoulder. Her dark hair was piled up in a messy bun, tendrils sticking to the damp skin of her neck.
James stared at his history textbook, the words blurring. All he could see was the rhythmic clench and release of the spandex over her backside, right there, inches from the edge of the table where he sat. It was a perfect, infuriating rhythm. A bounce with every scrub. A shift with every step to the sink.
He loved her. God, he loved her so much it was a physical ache in his chest. She was his whole world, the only person who’d looked at him with something other than pity after the funeral. She’d been twenty, just a kid herself, and she’d taken him in without a second thought. She made him laugh. She asked about his day. She was home.
And he was the worst kind of monster, because he couldn’t stop staring at the curve of her ass.
“You’re gonna set that book on fire with your brain,” she said, her voice cutting through the music and his thoughts. She didn’t turn around. “Test that bad?”
“It’s fine,” he mumbled, his throat tight.
“Mhm. Sure.” She rinsed the pot, the water splashing. She went up on her toes to put it in the overhead cupboard, and the movement stretched the fabric, outlining every muscle, every sublime curve. James felt a hot, shameful jolt in his gut. He looked away, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
He heard her soft footsteps on the linoleum. She was moving to the fridge, her path taking her right behind his chair. The scent of her coconut shampoo and clean sweat washed over him. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
As she passed, her hip brushed the back of his chair. It was nothing. An accident. But it was like a switch flipped.
His hand shot out. Not a thought, just a raw, electric impulse. His fingers closed around the swell of her hip, the spandex slick under his palm, the firm warmth of her body beneath it. He didn’t grab hard, but it wasn’t a pat. It was a possession.
The music played on, a cheerful, bouncy rhythm now utterly obscene.
Belen froze.
The whole world froze. The buzzing light, the dripping faucet, the blood roaring in James’s ears—it all narrowed to the point where his skin met hers.
Slowly, so slowly, she turned. He didn’t let go. His hand stayed, a brand on her hip, as she faced him.
Her expression wasn’t anger. It wasn’t shock. It was a deep, puzzled curiosity. Her warm brown eyes searched his, her head tilted slightly. A drop of dishwater slid down her forearm and plopped onto the floor. She didn’t seem to notice.
“James?” she said, her voice low and even. Not scared. Just… asking.
He couldn’t speak. He could only look up at her, his own eyes wide with a terror she wouldn’t understand. His fingers were still curled around her hip. He could feel the lace edge of her underwear beneath the tight shorts.
Her gaze dropped to his hand, then traveled back up to his face. The curious glint deepened, mixed with something else—a dawning, cautious awareness. The easy, sisterly affection that usually lived in her eyes flickered, like a faulty bulb. Something new and uncertain took its place.
She didn’t pull away.
She just stood there, in the grip of his silent, desperate confession, and waited for him to explain what he himself could not possibly ever explain. The red wine stain on the floorboards between them seemed to pulse in the low light, a dark, permanent mark.
The red wine stain on the floorboards between them seemed to pulse in the low light, a dark, permanent mark.
His hand was still on her. The realization snapped through him like a rubber band. He jerked his fingers back as if burned, the heat of her skin lingering on his palm.
“Sorry,” he blurted, the word too loud in the quiet kitchen. The music had stopped. “I just… you were right there. And it’s… it’s distracting.”
He forced a laugh. It came out strangled, a dry crackle in his throat. He couldn’t look at her face. He looked at the floor, at the stain, at her bare feet with the chipped pink polish on the toes.
“What’s distracting?” Her voice was careful, neutral. It wasn’t the playful tone she used when she teased him. This was something else. A door had cracked open, and she was peering through.
James ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. The panic was a live wire in his chest. He had to fix this. He had to make it normal. She’d had two glasses of wine while cooking. She was loose, relaxed. He could see the empty glass on the counter.
He chanced a glance up. She was still watching him, one hand now resting on the back of his chair. She hadn’t moved away.
“You,” he said, trying to shape his mouth into a smile. It felt like a grimace. “Just… doing the dishes. Right behind me. All… jiggly.”
He said the word. Jiggly. It hung in the air, absurd and crude and terrifying.
Belen’s eyebrows twitched upwards, just a fraction. Her lips, usually quick to smile, remained parted. She didn’t look offended. She looked… arrested.
“Jiggly,” she repeated, the word a soft echo.
“Yeah.” He was in it now. He had to sell it. He leaned back in his chair, aiming for a posture of casual complaint. His heart was trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. “It’s like a… a visual trap. I’m trying to read about the Peloponnesian War and there’s this… this thing just bouncing around in my peripheral vision. In those pants. It’s not fair.”
A slow blink. Then, a faint, incredulous puff of air escaped her nose. Not quite a laugh. A release of tension.
“These are just my workout shorts,” she said, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual melody. She looked down at herself, as if seeing them for the first time.
“I know what they are,” James said, the bravado fueled by sheer adrenaline. “They’re… effective. Too effective. You can’t just wield that kind of power while doing chores. There should be a rule.”
He was talking too much. He couldn’t stop. Every word was another step out onto thin, cracking ice. But she was listening. Her body, which had been statue-still, softened. She shifted her weight, her hip popping slightly.
A real smile, then. Small, confused, but a smile. It touched her eyes. “You’re such a weird kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” he said automatically, the protest weak.
“You are my kid,” she said, and the familiar endearment felt different now, loaded with a new electricity. She reached out and flicked his shoulder, her usual playfulness returning but altered, slower. Her touch lingered for a half-second longer than necessary. “And if my butt is so distracting, maybe you should do the dishes.”
She said it. Butt. She turned back toward the sink, giving him a deliberate, swaying view of the very subject of their conversation. It wasn’t her usual oblivious movement. It was conscious. A test.
James watched, his breath caught in his lungs. The air in the kitchen was no longer thick with old smells. It was charged, ionized. The silent understanding was more frightening than any accusation.
She turned the water back on, her movements deliberately slow. She looked over her shoulder, her dark eyes catching the ugly yellow light. The curious glint was now a steady, unreadable flame.
“Well?” she said, her voice barely above the sound of the tap. “You gonna help, or just keep staring?”
He stood up. The chair legs scraped the linoleum with a sound that shot through the silence. He didn’t go to the sink. He took two steps and stood behind her, close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin. He could see the fine, damp hairs on the back of her neck.
He didn’t touch her. He just stood there, drowning in the proximity she had just sanctioned.
Belen didn’t turn around. She held a dripping plate, her hands suspended in the soapy water. She waited. The whole apartment held its breath.
The whole apartment held its breath.
James took a step back, the spell broken by his own fear. He needed to move, to do something normal. His eyes landed on the bottle of cheap red on the counter. He walked to it, his movements stiff. He picked up her half-full glass.
“Here,” he said, his voice rough. He topped it off, the wine glugging from the bottle. He poured a new one for himself, though he didn’t want it. It was a prop. “You might need this for the traumatic dishwashing experience.”
Belen turned her head, watching him over her shoulder. She accepted the glass without a word, taking a long sip. She turned back to the sink, but her shoulders had lost their rigid line. James leaned against the counter next to her, sipping his wine. It tasted like vinegar and regret.
For a few minutes, only the sound of water and clinking dishes filled the space. The quiet was different now. It was a waiting quiet.
“So,” James said, swirling the wine in his glass. “The Peloponnesian War.”
“Fascinating,” Belen murmured, not looking at him. She was drinking faster now. He watched the line of her throat as she swallowed.
“Less fascinating than other things in this kitchen.”
She snorted softly, a real laugh this time. The wine was working. Her posture was looser. “You’re impossible tonight.”
“You started it.”
“I started it? By washing our dinner dishes?” She glanced at him, her eyes bright. Amused. The curiosity was still there, but it was warmer now, softened by the alcohol.
“By existing in those shorts. It’s aggressive.” He tried to keep his tone light, joking. The hammering in his chest was anything but.
She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. She drained her glass and held it out to him without looking. He refilled it. Her fingers brushed his as she took it back. A simple touch. It burned.
“You’re such a boy,” she said, but the word ‘boy’ didn’t sound like before. It sounded like a question.
“I’m not.” He took a risk. He nudged her hip with his own, leaning his weight against the counter so his side pressed into hers. She didn’t pull away. She leaned back, just slightly. “And don’t act like you don’t know what you have back there.”
She was quiet for a moment, scrubbing a plate. The water ran over her wrists. “What I have back where.”
“Come on, Belen.” He let his voice drop, a confidential murmur. “That great Latina butt. You’ve gotta know. The way guys look at you. The way you fill out a pair of jeans. You know.”
She didn’t deny it. She took another drink. A slow, deep one. When she lowered the glass, her cheeks were flushed. From the wine. From the words. From both.
“It’s just a butt,” she said, but her voice was low, a little slurry at the edges.
“It is not just a butt.” He was in dangerous territory now, talking about her body like a thing to be appraised. But she was listening. She was still leaned against him. “It’s a masterpiece. It’s, like, genetically unfair. You’re walking around with a weapon of mass distraction.”
She laughed, a real, unfiltered sound that made his stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest. It’s perfect. The shape. The way it moves. It’s stupid how perfect it is.” Every word pushed the boundary further. He was describing her, to her, and she was just standing there, drinking her wine, letting him.
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” she said. Her tone was teasing, but underneath was a thick, warm curiosity.
“I have eyes. It’s right there. All the time.” He paused. His mouth was dry. “Can I ask you something?”
“Mm.” She nodded, tilting her head back to finish the wine. The line of her throat was incredibly vulnerable.
“Does it… I mean, do you like it? The attention?”
She was quiet for so long he thought he’d gone too far. She set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink. She turned off the water. The sudden silence was immense.
She turned to face him, leaning her lower back against the sink’s edge. Her arms were crossed loosely over her stomach. Her eyes were dark pools, the pupils wide.
“Sometimes,” she said, finally. Her voice was a husky whisper. “It’s nice to be noticed. To feel… I don’t know. Desired.”
The word hung between them, fat and heavy. Desired. He had never heard her say anything like that. Not to him. Not about herself.
James felt dizzy. The cheap wine, the buzzing light, the sheer impossibility of this conversation. He set his own glass down. His hands were empty. They felt useless.
“It must be a lot,” he said, his own voice barely a sound.
“It can be.” She uncrossed her arms, letting her hands rest on the edge of the sink on either side of her hips. The position arched her back just a little. The fabric of her shorts stretched. “Sometimes I wish I could just… turn it off. For a day. Be invisible.”
“I don’t,” he blurted out. “I don’t wish that.”
Her eyes locked with his. The playful glint was gone, replaced by something slower, heavier. More aware.
“No?”
He shook his head. He took a half-step closer. There was barely a foot of space between them now. The kitchen air was hot and still. “No. I like seeing you. I love seeing you.”
It was too much. He saw the flicker in her eyes—a guardian’s instinct, a warning bell muffled by wine and a loneliness he’d only just glimpsed. She looked away, down at the floor between them.
“James…” It was a whisper of caution, but it lacked conviction. It sounded tired.
He saw his chance, fragile and terrible. He couldn’t ask. Asking would shatter it. He had to make it an extension of their game, their dizzy, tipsy joke.
“I mean, look at it,” he said, forcing a shaky laugh. He gestured vaguely toward her. “It’s right there. It’s practically begging for a… a quality inspection. A pinch test. For scientific accuracy.”
He held his breath. The words were absurd, stupid. But they were out there.
Belen looked up at him from under her lashes. A slow, tipsy smile spread across her face. It was unlike any smile she’d ever given him. It was complicit. It was blurred.
“A pinch test,” she repeated, rolling the words in her mouth like wine.
“Yeah. You know. To confirm the hype.”
She let out a long, slow breath. She looked down at her own body, then back at him. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
Then, she gave the smallest, almost imperceptible shrug. She turned slightly, presenting the curve of her hip to him. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no. She just… offered the space. And looked at the opposite wall, her expression unreadable.
James’s hand trembled as he raised it. The world narrowed to the inch of air between his fingertips and the black spandex. His heart was a thunder in his ears, drowning out every warning, every fragment of guilt.
He closed the distance.
The warmth of her seeped through the thin material immediately. He didn’t pinch. His fingers just… settled. Curved over the perfect, round swell. He applied the gentlest pressure.
She was solid. She was real. She was infinitely softer than he had imagined, yet firm. She inhaled sharply, a tiny, caught breath.
He held his breath, his entire being focused on the point of contact. His thumb brushed against the seam where the shorts met her thigh.
Belen didn’t move away. She stood perfectly still, leaning against the sink, her eyes fixed on the checked pattern of the floor. Her silence was a louder consent than any word could ever be.