Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The scent of burnt toast lingered stubbornly in the warm kitchen air, mingling uneasily with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Debbie stood at the stove, spatula hovering over eggs that were rapidly overcooking in the pan. Her gaze kept flicking towards the hallway. Every creak of the old house, every sigh of the refrigerator, felt amplified, charged with the memory of last night’s hushed footsteps and moonlight on bare skin. Her fingers, usually so sure and capable kneading muscle, felt clumsy this morning. Awkward.
The rhythmic thump of footsteps descending the stairs made her jump. She hastily scraped the eggs onto a plate, willing her face into a mask of normalcy. Matt appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He wore faded sweatpants and a slightly-too-small university t-shirt that stretched across his chest. Debbie’s gaze snagged for a fraction of a second on the defined line of his collarbone before she forced it away, focusing intently on wiping a nonexistent spot off the counter.
"Morning," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. He shuffled towards the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug with the bleary focus of the recently awakened.
"Morning," Debbie managed, her voice sounding unnaturally bright. "Sleep okay?" The question hung in the air, loaded. She busied herself sliding the plate of slightly rubbery eggs towards him.
"Yeah," he grunted, reaching for the toast rack. "Fine. Solid." He took a large bite, oblivious to the tension coiling in Debbie’s shoulders. He seemed utterly unaware of his nocturnal wanderings. Relief warred with a strange disappointment inside her.
The shrill ring of the landline phone shattered the fragile morning quiet. Debbie flinched. Only one person called the landline anymore. She wiped her hands nervously on her jeans before picking up the receiver.
"Debbie? Hi, it’s Lori." The voice on the other end was breathless, pitched high with anxiety. "How… how was last night? Everything okay? Did he… wander?"
Debbie turned slightly away from Matt, lowering her voice. "Lori, hi. Yeah, everything’s fine." She kept her tone deliberately light, casual. "He’s right here, having breakfast."
"Oh, good! Good." Lori’s relief was palpable, even over the phone line. "I just… you know how I worry. Especially the first night somewhere new. Did he… did he get up? At all?"
Debbie hesitated. Matt was obliviously chewing toast, scrolling through something on his phone. She lowered her voice further. "He did, actually. Around two, maybe? I heard the floorboards."
A sharp intake of breath from Lori. "Oh, Debbie! Was he… was he okay? Did he seem confused? Did he try to go outside?"
"He was just standing in the hall," Debbie murmured, keeping her back firmly to Matt. "Sleepwalking. Eyes open but… not seeing anything. Like you said."
"Oh, thank goodness you were there!" Lori’s voice trembled slightly. "What did you do? Did he get upset?"
"No, no," Debbie reassured her quickly. "I just… talked softly. Guided him back to bed. He went right back to sleep." She omitted the details – the warmth of his skin under her hand, the sculpted planes of his back in the moonlight, the unsettling intimacy of tucking him in. Those details felt like secrets she couldn’t share, not even with his mother.
"You guided him? That’s perfect, Debbie. Just perfect." Lori sighed, a sound heavy with years of practiced worry. "You’re a lifesaver. Honestly, I feel so much better knowing he’s with you. It’s… it’s hard, letting go, you know?"
"I know," Debbie said softly, her eyes drifting unconsciously towards Matt’s broad shoulders as he reached for the coffee carafe again. "Believe me, I know."
"It’s just…" Lori paused, her voice dropping conspiratorially, as if Matt might overhear across the miles. "Sometimes, after I get him back to bed… if he seems a bit restless still… I find it helps to just… soothe him a little? You know?"
Debbie frowned, stirring her own cooling coffee absently. "Soothe him?"
"Yeah," Lori continued, her words tumbling out faster now. "Just gentle touches. Like… rubbing his hair? Or sometimes, a light stroke on his chest or his leg. Nothing major. Just… calming. It seems to settle him deeper, stop him from stirring again right away. Like grounding him back into sleep." She laughed, a nervous little sound. "Probably sounds silly."
Debbie’s hand tightened on the phone. Her gaze snapped back to Matt. He was leaning against the counter now, scrolling, completely unaware of the conversation dissecting his sleep habits. The image Lori conjured – her own hand smoothing Matt’s dark hair, resting lightly on the firm plane of his chest, tracing the line of his thigh beneath the quilt – slammed into her mind with visceral clarity. Heat flooded her cheeks.
"Oh," Debbie managed, her voice suddenly tight. "No, doesn’t sound silly. Practical." The word felt alien on her tongue.
"It really does help," Lori insisted earnestly. "Just thought… you know… in case it happens again. Might make it easier for both of you. Less disruption."
"Right," Debbie breathed. "Less disruption. Thanks, Lori. That’s… helpful." Her knuckles were white where she gripped the receiver.
"Anytime! And Debbie? Seriously. Thank you. For watching over him." Lori’s voice softened. "It means the world."
"Of course," Debbie murmured. "Talk soon." She hung up the phone slowly, the plastic clicking loudly in the sudden quiet of the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator seemed deafening.
She turned back towards the counter, needing to move, to do something. Matt was scraping the last of the eggs onto his fork. He looked up, catching her eye for a fleeting second. A casual, sleepy half-smile touched his lips.
"Everything okay?" he asked around a mouthful of food.
Debbie forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look as brittle as it felt. "Fine. Just your mom. Checking in." She grabbed the sponge and started scrubbing the already clean stovetop with unnecessary vigor. Her mind raced, replaying Lori’s words: Rubbing his hair… a light stroke on his chest or his leg… settles him deeper. The suggestion, offered with maternal concern, felt like a key turning in a lock Debbie hadn't known existed. A lock guarding something dangerous and deeply alluring.
She watched Matt rinse his plate under the tap, the muscles in his forearm flexing. The mundane domesticity of the morning felt paper-thin, stretched taut over the simmering undercurrent Lori’s call had unleashed. The scent of coffee couldn't mask the phantom sensation of warm skin beneath her fingertips, the imagined weight of her hand resting on his sleeping chest. The loneliness she’d sought to fill by renting the room now felt like a vast, echoing space, waiting to be filled with something far more potent, and infinitely more treacherous, than just the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The fork clattered into the sink as Matt finished. Debbie kept scrubbing, the rhythmic motion failing to erase the electric charge now humming in the quiet kitchen air.