Chapter 3: The Confession in the Dark
The house had finally gone quiet.
Not the good kind of quiet, either. The kind that settles in after hours of noise, after the last aunt has been kissed goodnight and the last uncle has been poured into a taxi. The kind that made every creak of the floorboards sound like a gunshot.
Layla lay in the guest room bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the rotations of the ceiling fan. Her sister was asleep beside her, breathing deep and even, one arm thrown over her face like she was warding off demons.
Two days. They'd survived almost two full days of this. Family dinners and loaded questions and the constant, exhausting performance of being fine. Tomorrow morning they'd pack up and drive home and this whole weekend would be over.
Except she couldn't stop thinking about the bathroom.
The shower running. His voice through the curtain. The way he'd laughed when she'd made a fuss about the gap. The way he'd said her name—Layla—like it was the easiest thing in the world.
And she couldn't stop thinking about the parking lot. The backseat of his car. The way he'd looked at her afterward, like she'd handed him something precious and he was terrified of dropping it.
Three weeks. Three weeks of replaying that night in her head, of drafting texts she never sent, of staring at his name in her phone and wondering how to say I don't regret it without sounding like a lovesick idiot.
She'd been scared. That was the truth of it. Scared of how much she wanted him. Scared of what it meant that she'd given him something she'd never given anyone else. Scared that he'd wake up one morning and realize he didn't want her anymore, and she'd be left standing there with her heart in her hands, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.
But lying here, listening to her sister breathe, she couldn't stand it anymore. The not knowing. The waiting. The pretending.
Layla sat up slowly, carefully, easing her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She was wearing an old t-shirt and shorts, nothing special, nothing planned.
She hadn't planned this. She was just going to do it.
The hallway was dark. She navigated by memory—left at the top of the stairs, past the linen closet, second door on the right. Omar's childhood bedroom. She'd seen him go in there earlier, after the last of the guests had left, and she'd watched the door close behind him and felt something twist in her chest.
She stood outside now, hand hovering over the doorknob, heart pounding so loud she was sure it would wake the entire house.
This was insane. This was a terrible idea. This was—
She turned the knob.
The door swung open with a soft creak. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlamp through the curtains. She could see the outline of him in the bed, propped against the headboard, scrolling through his phone.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
"Oh," he said.
Just that. Just one syllable. But his voice was hoarse, like he hadn't used it in hours, and there was something in his expression—surprise, maybe, or hope—that made her throat close up.
"Hi," she managed."Hi."
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The room smelled like old books and faint traces of his mother's lavender spray. The ceiling fan hummed overhead. Posters of cities she didn't recognize covered the walls—Paris, Istanbul, someplace with mountains—and a pile of blankets was bunched at the foot of the bed.
Omar was wearing grey sweatpants. No shirt. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it.
She was going to die.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
"No."
"Me neither."
She stood there, frozen, every word she'd rehearsed vanishing from her brain. This was supposed to be easier. She'd had a whole speech planned. Something about the parking lot and the backseat and the way she'd felt afterward, terrified and exhilarated and completely overwhelmed.
Instead, she just stood there like an idiot.
"You can sit," Omar said, nodding at the edge of the bed.
She sat.
The mattress dipped under her weight. She was close enough to touch him now, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. The comforter was soft beneath her fingers, the same comforter from his teenage years, and she picked at a loose thread on the edge of it because she didn't know what else to do with her hands.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
He set his phone down. The room went quiet.
"I've been thinking about the parking lot," she continued, voice barely above a whisper. "About that night. About what happened."
Omar didn't move. Didn't speak. Just waited.
"I climbed into your lap." She laughed, hollow, shaking her head. "God. I climbed into your lap and I kissed you and I let you—I let you—"
"You let me," he said, gently.
"I wanted to." She finally looked at him, and her eyes were stinging, and she hated it. "I wanted it so bad. But afterward, I—" She sucked in a breath. "I got scared. Because I didn't know how to say what it meant. I didn't know how to tell you that you were—that I—"
She couldn't finish. The words were stuck in her throat, tangled up with fear and pride and the desperate need to keep herself safe.
Omar was quiet for a long moment. The fan turned overhead, spinning slow circles in the dim light.
"You were the first," she whispered. "You know that. You're the only one. I've never—"
"I know."
"And I don't regret it." Her voice cracked. "I don't regret a single second of it. I just—I didn't know how to tell you that. I didn't know how to say that I wanted you, that I've wanted you for weeks, that I—"
Omar reached over and tilted her chin up.
His fingers were warm against her skin. His eyes held hers, steady and intent, and there was something in his expression she couldn't read.
"Layla," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I've been gone for you since the first night we texted."
She blinked."What?"
"Since the first night." His thumb brushed her jaw. "You sent me that stupid meme about the raccoon, and I sat in my kitchen at two in the morning and laughed so hard I woke up my mom. And I knew—I knew right then—that I was in trouble."
"Omar—"
"I've been replaying that backseat in my head every night since." His voice dropped, rough. "Every single night. The way you looked at me. The way you said my name. And I thought—" He swallowed. "I thought you regretted it. I thought you were done with me. It was killing me."
Layla's eyes burned. She blinked fast, trying to keep the tears back.
"I don't regret it," she said again. "I don't."
"Then what are you doing here?"
She stared at him. At his face, open and vulnerable and hopeful. At his chest, rising and falling with barely controlled breaths. At his hand, still touching her chin, still holding her like she was something precious.
"I'm here," she said slowly, "because I'm done being scared."
Omar kissed her.
Soft at first. Gentle. His lips barely brushing hers, like he was testing the waters. But then she made a sound—something small and needy—and he pulled her closer, and the kiss deepened, and everything else fell away.
The house. The family. The two days of pretending. All of it.
When he finally pulled back, she was breathless. Her hands had found their way to his chest, her fingers splayed against his skin.
"Follow me," he murmured against her mouth."Where?"
"The bathroom." He kissed her corner of her jaw. "It's in my bedroom. Nobody ever goes in there."
She looked past him. There was a door to her right, half-hidden in shadow. An en-suite. Of course there was an en-suite.
"Okay," she whispered.
He took her hand.
The bathroom was small and warm, the walls painted a soft blue. A shower curtain hung across one end, and there was a sink crowded with toiletries, and a mirror that reflected the two of them—dark-haired and flushed and breathing hard.
Omar turned on the light. Then he turned back to her.
"You're sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure."
He kissed her again, and this time there was nothing soft about it.
His hands slid under her shirt, palms flat against her back, pulling her flush against him. She could feel everything—the heat of his skin, the muscle beneath it, the hard line of his erection pressed against her hip. Her breath caught, and he swallowed the sound, his mouth moving over hers like he was trying to memorize the shape of it.
"You have no idea," he muttered, between kisses, "how long I've wanted to do this."
"Show me."
He lifted her shirt over her head in one smooth motion. Her shorts followed, then her underwear, until she was standing naked in front of him, skin flushing under his gaze.
"You're beautiful," he said, like it was a fact.
"Shut up."
"I'm serious."
"I know." She reached for the waistband of his sweatpants. "Now take these off before I lose my nerve."
He laughed—gods, she loved that laugh—and shoved them down his hips. His boxers followed. And then he was naked too, and she was staring at him, at all of him, and her mouth went dry.
"You're—" She swallowed."Okay."
"Okay?"
"I mean—" She gestured vaguely at his body. "That's. Yeah. Okay."
He grinned. "You're adorable when you're flustered."
"I'm not flustered."
"You're definitely flustered."
She grabbed his face and kissed him to shut him up.
His hands found her hips, then her ass, pulling her up and against him. She gasped against his mouth as his cock pressed against her stomach, hard and hot and so much bigger than she remembered.
"Bedroom," she managed. "Or—wherever. I don't care."
"Bathroom's fine." He turned her, guiding her back against the sink. "Unless you want to wait."
"No waiting. No more waiting."
He lifted her onto the counter. The marble was cold against her thighs, and she flinched, but then his mouth was on her neck and she stopped caring.
His lips traced down her throat, her collarbone, her chest. He took one nipple into his mouth and she arched into him, a moan slipping past her lips.
"Quiet," he murmured. "My parents are down the hall."
"Then stop doing that."
He laughed, but he didn't stop. He sucked harder, rolling his tongue over the sensitive peak, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
His hand slid between her legs.
She was already wet. Soaked, actually. Her body had been waiting for this, craving it, and when his fingers found her slick heat, she almost sobbed.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so wet."
"Shut up."
"You're dripping."
"I said shut up."
He slid one finger inside her. Then two. Curling them up, finding that spot that made her vision go white.
"Omar—"
"Shh."
She wasn't going to survive this.
His thumb found her clit, circling slow and deliberate. His fingers moved inside her, in and out, stretching her, filling her. She was shaking, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"I want to watch you come," he said. "Can I?"
She nodded. Words were beyond her.
He kept going. Faster now. His thumb pressed harder, his fingers curled deeper, and she was climbing, climbing, climbing toward something she couldn't name.
"Omar—"
"Let go."
"I'm—"
"Let go, Layla."
She came.
It hit her like a wave, crashing over her, drowning her. She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood, but the moan still escaped—low and long and desperate. Her body clenched around his fingers, waves of pleasure rolling through her, leaving her limp and trembling and gasping for air.
When she opened her eyes, Omar was watching her with a look she couldn't describe.
"Beautiful," he said.
"Stop."
"Never."
He pulled his fingers out and lifted them to his mouth. She watched, transfixed, as he licked them clean.
"We taste good," he said.
She should have been horrified. Instead, something hot and tight curled in her belly.
"Your turn," she said.
"What?"
"Your turn." She reached for him, wrapping her fingers around his cock. He was hard, so hard it looked painful, and he hissed through his teeth when she touched him. "How do you want me?"
"God." He closed his eyes. "You can't just say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like—" He groaned. "Fuck."
She stroked him slowly, watching his face. The way his jaw clenched. The way his breath came faster. The way his hips bucked into her hand, involuntarily seeking more.
"I want—" He opened his eyes. "I want to be inside you."
"Then do it."
"You're sure?"
She slid off the counter and turned around. Bent over the sink, bracing her hands on the marble, she looked at him in the mirror.
"I'm sure."
He stepped up behind her. She felt the heat of his body against her back, the press of his cock against her ass. His hands found her hips, gripping tight, and she heard him take a shaky breath.
"Condom," he muttered.
"What?"
"I don't have a condom."
"Fuck."
"I know." He rested his forehead against her shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry."
She almost laughed. "Omar. There's a box in the guest bathroom. Under the sink."
He stilled."What?"
"My sister's. Her and her boyfriend. Just—go."
He kissed her shoulder and disappeared. She heard him in the hallway, quiet footsteps, the creak of a door. Then he was back, breathless, tearing open a square foil with his teeth.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Just do it."
He slid into her from behind.
She gasped. Her fingers splayed against the sink, searching for purchase. He was thick—thicker than she remembered—and the stretch was almost too much. Her body clenched around him, fighting the intrusion, and he paused.
"Relax," he whispered. "Breathe."
She exhaled. Forced her muscles to loosen. He pushed deeper.
"Fuck." His voice was strained. "You feel—you feel—"
"Move."
He moved.
Slow at first. Gentle. Pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in. She could hear the wet sound of their bodies meeting, the slap of skin against skin, and it was obscene and perfect and she wanted more.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
His hips snapped against hers, driving deep, and she cried out—loud enough that he clamped a hand over her mouth.
"Quiet," he hissed. "They'll hear."
She bit down on his hand. He groaned, thrusting harder, and she met every movement, pushing back against him, taking everything he gave her.
"So fucking good," he muttered. "So tight. So perfect."
She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. The pleasure was building again, coiling tighter and tighter in her core, and she was losing control.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Me too."
"Don't stop."
"I won't."
He reached around and found her clit, rubbing circles as he fucked into her. The combination was devastating. She felt herself shatter, coming apart around his cock, her body clenching and releasing in waves.
He came with a strangled groan, hips jerking, filling the condom. His breath was hot against her neck, his hands gripping her hips like he might fall over without the support.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he pulled out slowly. She winced at the emptiness, the sudden loss.
He kissed the back of her neck.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." She laughed, breathless. "Yeah, I'm okay."
He turned her around. His face was flushed, his hair damp with sweat, and he looked at her like she'd hung the moon.
"I want to do that again," he said.
"Now?"
"In an hour. Or ten minutes. Or—" He kissed her. "Whenever you're ready."
She smiled. Small and real and entirely for him.
"I'm ready now," she said.
He grinned. "Greedy."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She pulled him back toward the bedroom.
The last thing she heard before the door closed was the soft click of the lock. The last thing she felt was his hands on her skin and his mouth on her neck and the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress.
They didn't sleep that night.
Not even close.
His mouth found hers before she could catch her breath, before her legs stopped trembling from the sink, before the world outside this small blue-tiled room could push its way back in.
"You okay?" he asked against her lips.
"Stop asking me that."
"I'm serious."
"I'm fine." She pulled back enough to look at him, her hand flat on his chest, feeling his heart hammer against her palm. "I'm better than fine. I'm—" She laughed, breathless. "I don't know what I am."
"Good." He kissed her forehead. "That's good."
The bathroom was too small for two people to stand together without touching. The sink was still damp from where she'd braced against it, and the mirror was fogged from their breath and their heat, and the air smelled like sex and lavender soap.
"We should get out of here," she said.
"Where do you want to go?"
"Your bed."
His eyebrows lifted."My bed."
"Yeah." She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the door. "Problem?"
"No." He followed, stepping over the discarded sweatpants, not bothering to grab them. "No problem at all."
The bedroom was darker than the bathroom, lit only by that same streetlamp glow through the curtains. The ceiling fan still turned its slow, lazy circles, and the comforter still smelled like him—warm and clean and something she couldn't name.
She climbed onto the mattress and pulled him down with her.
They landed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, laughing, and then not laughing, because his mouth was on her throat and his hands were everywhere and she couldn't remember why she'd ever been nervous about this.
He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him.
"Your turn," he said.
"What?"
"You heard me." His hands found her hips, squeezing. "I want to watch you."
She sat up, straddling him, and looked down at his face. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted, and there was something in his expression—awe, maybe, or hunger—that made her stomach flip.
"You want me to ride you."
"I want you to use me." His voice was rough. "However you want."
She reached between them and found him hard against her thigh. Still hard. Already hard again. She wrapped her fingers around his cock and watched his jaw tighten.
"Condom," she said.
"Nightstand."
She leaned over him, stretching, feeling him press against her belly as she reached for the drawer. The foil crinkled in her fingers. She ripped it open with her teeth and rolled it on, slow, deliberate, watching his face the whole time.
"Tease," he breathed.
"You like it."
"I hate it."
"You don't."
She positioned herself over him. The head of his cock pressed against her slick entrance, and she paused, holding still, enjoying the way his hands tightened on her hips.
"Layla."
"Yes?"
"Please."
She sank down.
The stretch was different from behind. Deeper. She felt every inch of him, the resistance of her body giving way, the fullness that made her gasp and brace her hands on his chest.
"Fuck," he said, like it was a prayer.
She started to move.
Slow at first, rocking her hips, finding the rhythm that made him groan. His hands were everywhere—her thighs, her ass, her breasts—gripping and releasing, like he couldn't decide where to hold on.
"Harder," he said.
She gave him harder.
She bounced on his cock, fast and frantic, chasing her own pleasure as much as his. The slap of their bodies filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, and she didn't care if anyone heard, didn't care about anything except the way he felt inside her.
"God, you're—" He broke off, groaning. "I'm close."
"Not yet."
"Layla—"
"Not yet." She slowed down, grinding against him, watching his face contort. "You said you wanted me to use you."
"I didn't think you'd actually—"
"Shh."
She rode him until he was shaking, until his fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise, until his teeth were clenched and his eyes were squeezed shut.
"Please," he said.
"Please what?"
"Let me come."
She leaned forward, pressing her chest against his, her lips to his ear.
"Come."
He did.
She felt it—the way his body jerked, the way his breath caught, the way his cock pulsed inside her. He came with a sound that was almost a sob, his arms wrapping around her, holding her close like she might disappear.
She kept moving, slower now, drawing it out, until he couldn't take it anymore and grabbed her hips to still her.
"Too much," he managed. "Fuck. Too much."
She stopped. Smiled."Good?"
"You're trying to kill me."
"Maybe."
She climbed off him. He disposed of the condom and collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, one arm thrown over his eyes.
"Give me a minute," he said.
"Take your time."
"I need to—just—"
She lay beside him, head on his shoulder, listening to his heart slow down. The ceiling fan turned. The streetlamp flickered. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I'm dead."
"You're not."
"I'm dead and this is heaven."
She laughed, soft against his chest. "You're dramatic."
"You made me come so hard I saw stars."
She felt something warm spread through her chest. Pride, maybe. Or affection.
"You want me to wait?" he asked, after a moment.
"What?"
"Before I—" He gestured vaguely at her body. "You know. I want to make you come too. But I need—"
"I can wait."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." She kissed his shoulder. "Besides, you're supposed to last longer the second time. That's what I hear."
He laughed. "Who told you that?"
"Movies."
"Movies lie."
"We'll see."
Twenty minutes.
He made her wait twenty minutes.
She spent them in his arms, talking about nothing—the family dinner tomorrow, the way his cousin kept looking at her like he knew something, the fact that her sister had definitely noticed she wasn't in bed.
"She's going to kill me," Layla said.
"Only if she finds out."
"She'll find out."
"How?"
"I don't know." She traced patterns on his chest. "She always does."
He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Then we'll give her something to talk about."
"What?"
He rolled on top of her.
She hadn't even felt him get hard again, but he was—she could feel it against her thigh, thick and insistent. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, her breast—
"Wait," she said.
"What?"
"Condom."
He reached for the nightstand without looking, without breaking contact, and she heard the foil tear.
"How do you want me?" he asked.
"Like this."
"Like what?"
"On my back. I want to see you."
He kissed her, deep and slow, and she felt him position himself between her legs. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance—
And stopped.
"Open your legs," he said.
"I already—"
"More."
She let her knees fall wide, wider than she'd ever spread for anyone, and watched his face as he looked down at her.
"God," he breathed. "You're so fucking beautiful."
"Omar—"
"Shh. Let me look."
He stared at her—at the place where her body opened for him, pink and wet and waiting. And then he pressed inside.
The angle was different like this. Deeper. She could feel him in her stomach, could feel every ridge and vein of him, and when he started to move, she couldn't hold back the moan.
"That's it," he said. "Let me hear you."
She dug her heels into the mattress, arching into him, and he drove into her—slow and hard—like he was trying to memorize the shape of her.
"You feel so good," he muttered. "So tight. So perfect."
"Harder."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He fucked her harder, faster, until the headboard started hitting the wall and she had to reach back and brace herself against it.
"Quiet," she gasped. "You have to be—"
"I don't care."
"Omar—"
"I don't care who hears." He kissed her, swallowing her protests. "Let them know."
She came around him, clenching hard, her nails raking down his back. He held on for another few seconds, then followed—groaning into her neck, hips stuttering, body collapsing on top of hers.
For a long time, neither of them moved.
His weight pressed her into the mattress, the sweat cooling on their skin, the ceiling fan turning and turning. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest, slowing, matching hers.
"You're heavy," she said, eventually.
"Sorry." He didn't move."Omar."
"Give me a minute."
"You're crushing me."
"Worth it."
She laughed and pushed at his shoulder. He rolled off with a grunt, landing on his back beside her.
"I can't feel my legs," he said.
"Good."
"I think you broke me."
"You'll recover."
They lay there in the dark, side by side, breathing. And slowly, the reality of the night crept back in—the house, the family, the fact that they'd have to face everyone at breakfast.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"I don't know. Late."
"We should sleep."
"Should we?"
She turned her head. He was looking at her, and there was something in his eyes she couldn't name.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing." He reached over and traced her jaw. "Just—I'm glad you came."
"To your room?"
"To the party. To the weekend. To—" He stopped. "I'm just glad."
She kissed his palm. "Me too."
"Stay."
"I can't."
"Just for a while."
She should say no. She should get up and go back to the guest room and pretend this never happened. But she was tired, and warm, and his arm was curling around her waist.
"A while," she agreed.
She didn't mean to fall asleep.
She woke to the sound of birds.
The room was gray with early morning light, and Omar was still asleep beside her—face relaxed, breathing deep, one arm still draped across her stomach. The ceiling fan had stopped. The window was fogged with dew.
She checked her phone. Six forty-seven.
"Shit."
She eased out from under his arm, careful not to wake him. Her clothes were scattered across the floor—shirt here, shorts there, underwear somewhere in between. She found them all, dressed silently, and tiptoed to the door.
The hallway was empty. The house was still.
She made it to the guest room without a single sound. Her sister was exactly where she'd left her, still asleep, still snoring softly. Layla slipped under the covers and closed her eyes.
Her heart was pounding.
She could still feel him—a dull ache between her legs, the ghost of his fingers on her skin. She could still taste him—salt and soap and something darker. She pressed her thighs together and tried to breathe.
She had maybe an hour before her sister woke up. An hour before the house came alive again. An hour before she had to sit across the breakfast table from Omar and pretend like nothing had happened.
She was going to die.
But she was also—for the first time in weeks—not scared.
The door creaked open.
Layla's eyes flew open. Her sister stood in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes half-closed.
"Where were you?" she mumbled.
"What?"
"I woke up around four. You weren't here."
Layla's heart stopped.
"I was—" She swallowed. "Bathroom."
"For two hours?"
"Stomach ache."
Her sister stared at her. Then shrugged, too tired to push it.
"Whatever. You're weird."
"Go back to sleep."
"Already am."
She shuffled back to her bed and passed out within seconds, leaving Layla alone with her racing heart and the taste of Omar still on her tongue.
She stared at the ceiling and waited for the morning to start.