Chapter 1: The Accidental Discovery
The steam from the shower hadn’t fully cleared, hanging in the bathroom air like a guilty secret. Layla leaned against the sink, the cool porcelain a shock against her lower back. The nightlight by the toilet cast a weak, flickering glow, painting everything in watery blues and deep, uncertain greens.
It had been a long, stupid day. The kind where you spill coffee on your only clean shirt and then trip over absolutely nothing on the sidewalk. Jax’s place was supposed to be a temporary sanctuary, a crash pad while she got her head straight. His cologne—something with sandalwood and citrus—still lingered from his morning routine, a scent that usually meant home and cousin and safe.
Right now, it felt like audience.
She’d been rummaging for a spare toothbrush in the cabinet, her mind a million miles away, when her fingers had brushed against the box. It was plain, unmarked. In her defense, Jax was notoriously messy, and she’d assumed it was a new electric razor or something. Not this. Not the sleek, anatomically-enthusiastic piece of silicone that now felt alive in her hand, still humming with a low, insistent vibration.
A laugh, sharp and surprised, had escaped her then. Classic Layla. Of course. She’d examined it with a kind of horrified curiosity. Then, a worse idea, born of a week of frustration and the weird, quiet loneliness of being displaced, had taken root. What was the harm? He’d never know. A quick, private stress-relief session in the steamy dark, and she’d return it, none the wiser. A victimless crime.
She’d been wrong about the victimless part.
Now, her wrist was pressed hard against her mouth, teeth biting into her own skin to stifle the sound. Her other hand moved, the rhythm desperate, focused. The world had narrowed to the pulse between her legs and the frantic hammer of her heart. The flickering light swam in her vision.
She was so close. The tension was a wire pulled taut, about to—
The door creaked.
Not a slow, ominous creak. A practical, everyday sound of old hinges. It was the most terrifying sound she’d ever heard.
Her eyes flew open.
Jax stood in the doorway, a silhouette backlit by the hallway’s harsh yellow. He was holding a towel, the one she’d forgotten. His expression moved through stages like slides clicking into place: confusion, then dawning comprehension, then absolute, crystal-clear recognition.
His gaze didn’t go to her face. It went straight to her hand. To his property, glistening unmistakably in the shaky light.
Time didn’t stop. It thickened, like the steam, becoming something you had to wade through.
Layla froze. The device fell from her slack fingers, hitting the fluffy bath mat with a dull, pathetic thud. The hum seemed deafening in the sudden silence.
“I can explain,” she whispered, the words sticking in her dry throat.
Jax blinked. He looked from the mat, to her, to the empty box on the counter. His jaw worked. A muscle ticked in his temple.
“That,” he said finally, his voice eerily calm, “is a very specific thing to explain, Lay.”
He didn’t move. He just kept staring, his eyes wide. The towel hung limp from his hand.
The shame was instant and volcanic, burning up her neck and flooding her cheeks. She fumbled, grabbing the worn towel from the rack and clutching it to her front, a flimsy shield. “It was an accident. I was looking for a toothbrush. I didn’t… I mean, I saw what it was, but then I thought…”
“You thought you’d borrow it?” he finished. His eyebrows lifted. The shock was receding, replaced by something else. Amusement? Horror? She couldn’t tell.
“No! Yes. Sort of.” She covered her face with her hands, the towel slipping. “God. Just kill me. Seriously. Push me out the window.”
He took a step into the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him. The space, which had felt cavernous a second ago, suddenly shrunk to the size of a coffin. He leaned past her, his shoulder brushing hers, and picked up the offending object. He turned it off. The silence that followed was absolute.
He held it up between them. “You couldn’t have just used a… I don’t know. A hairbrush handle? Like a normal person?”
“That’s a stereotype,” she mumbled into her hands.
“It’s a seventy-dollar stereotype!” he said, a laugh finally breaking through his stunned facade. It was a strangled, disbelieving sound. “With three different… never mind. Jesus, Layla.”
She peeked through her fingers. He was shaking his head, running his free hand through his dark hair. He wasn’t looking at her with disgust. He looked… baffled. And deeply, profoundly embarrassed for her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words genuine now, small. “I’m so sorry. That’s a huge violation. I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll buy you ten. I’ll never speak of this again. We can pretend this was a shared fever dream.”
He placed the thing on the counter with deliberate care, as if it were a holy relic or a live grenade. He finally met her eyes. His were a warm brown, usually full of easy humor. Now they were just trying to process.
“A shared fever dream,” he repeated slowly. “Right. Okay.” He took a deep breath, looking at the ceiling. “Look. It’s… it’s fine. Weird. So, so weird. But fine.” He gestured vaguely with the towel he’d brought in. “I just came to give you this. You left it in the living room.”
He held it out. She took it, their fingers not touching.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He nodded, backing toward the door. His hand paused on the knob. He didn’t look back. “Just… maybe knock next time you go exploring in my bathroom cabinet. Deal?”
“Deal.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Layla stood there, clutching both towels to her chest, listening to his retreating footsteps down the hall. The aftermath of interrupted pleasure was a cold, sick feeling in her gut. The scent of his cologne seemed stronger now, accusatory.
She looked at the silent, sleek shape on the counter. Then she looked at her own reflection in the misty mirror: wild red hair, huge green eyes full of mortification.
“Smooth,” she said to her reflection, her voice hollow. “Really smooth.”