Chapter 3: Chapter 3
The silence of the house that night wasn't peaceful; it was expectant. Debbie lay rigid beneath her duvet, staring at the ceiling’s faint shadows. The digital clock burned 1:47 AM. Every rustle of the sheets beneath her felt amplified. Every tick of the old house settling was a potential footfall. She’d replayed Lori’s advice on a loop all day – rubbing his hair… a light stroke on his chest or his leg… settles him deeper. The words felt branded onto her thoughts, simultaneously practical and perilous.
Then it came. Not the creak of a settling beam, but the distinct, rhythmic pressure of weight on the hallway floorboards outside her door. Thump… shuffle… pause. The same cadence as last night.
Her breath hitched. She pushed back the covers, the cool air raising goosebumps on her bare arms. She grabbed the silk robe draped over her chair, its cool slide against her skin a fleeting distraction. Tying the belt tight, she moved to her door, pressing an ear against the cool wood. Silence. Then another soft shuffle, further down the hall.
She eased the door open just enough to slip through. The narrow hallway was dim, lit only by the faint ambient glow from a streetlight filtering through the small window at the end. The scent of bleach – she’d cleaned the bathroom earlier – mixed with the lingering aroma of dinner. And there he was. Just as before. Matt stood near the bathroom door, facing the blank wall, clad only in thin grey boxer shorts. Moonlight caught the defined ridges of his shoulders, the taper of his back narrowing to his waist. The dark trail of hair leading down from his navel was stark against his skin. He was utterly still, breathing slowly, eyes open and unfocused, lost in that deep, unknowable sleep.
Debbie’s heart hammered against her ribs. Just guide him back. Like last time. She took a silent step onto the worn runner, then another. The floorboard groaned softly under her weight. He didn’t stir. She approached cautiously, the silk of her robe whispering against itself.
"Matt," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Matt, it’s Debbie. You’re sleepwalking." She moved closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin, smell the clean, sleep-scent of him. "Come on," she said, her voice firmer now, laced with a forced calm she didn’t feel. She gently slipped an arm around his waist, her fingers brushing the warm, surprisingly soft skin just above the waistband of his boxers. The solid muscle beneath her touch was startling, electric. He felt vital, alive, yet eerily passive.
He turned slowly, predictably, under her guidance. His eyes didn't register her. She kept her arm around him, her palm flat against the firm plane of his lower back, steering him towards his open bedroom door. His steps were slow, shuffling, his body heat seeping through the thin silk of her robe.
Inside his room, the air felt different. Warmer. Charged with the intimate scent of him – laundry detergent, faint male musk, sleep. Moonlight spilled across the unmade bed. She guided him to the edge. "Okay, Matt. Sit down." He complied automatically, sinking onto the mattress with a sigh, his head lolling slightly.
Now. Lori’s voice echoed in her head. Soothe him. Settle him deeper. Debbie hesitated, her hand still resting lightly on his back. The sight of him sitting there, vulnerable and unaware, the smooth skin of his back, the powerful line of his shoulders… it twisted something inside her. Loneliness, curiosity, something unnamed and dangerous flickered.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Just the leg. Like his mother said. Slowly, carefully, she moved her hand from his back. He remained passive, breathing steadily. She knelt beside the bed, the worn carpet rough against her bare knees through the silk. Her gaze swept over his legs – strong, defined from soccer, dusted with dark hair. Her hand hovered for a heart-stopping moment over his inner thigh, inches above the hem of his boxers. The skin there looked softer, paler.
Taking a shallow breath, she lowered her fingertips. Contact. Warm, smooth skin, taut over solid muscle. She traced a slow, deliberate line upwards, feather-light, along the sensitive inner seam of his thigh, stopping just short of where the fabric began. The touch was intimate. Far more intimate than guiding him. Her own breath caught. She felt the faint tremor in her own fingers.
His breathing remained deep, even. He didn’t stir. If anything, the slight tension she’d felt in his posture seemed to melt away. He sighed again, a deeper, more contented sound, his head sinking further onto the pillow.
Relief warred with a sharp pang of guilt. It had worked. But the intimacy of the touch, the forbidden territory of his bare skin beneath her fingertips, sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cool air. She pulled her hand back as if burned. Her gaze lifted to his face, peaceful in sleep, the dark lashes stark against his cheek. An impulse, sudden and overwhelming, seized her. Before she could question it, she leaned forward and pressed a soft, quick kiss onto his forehead. Her lips met warm skin, the brush of his tousled hair against her cheek. It was a kiss meant for comfort, the kind she’d given her son a thousand times. But here, now, with this man, this near-naked young man whose thigh she’d just caressed, it felt like a transgression.
She froze for a second, her lips still against his skin, inhaling the scent of his hair. Then she recoiled, scrambling back onto her heels. Her heart thundered. What had she done? She stood quickly, silently, backing away from the bed, her silk robe clinging uncomfortably. She paused at the door, watching him for a moment. He shifted slightly, murmured something incomprehensible, but settled deeper into the pillow. Asleep. Truly asleep.
Debbie slipped out, pulling the door almost closed behind her. She leaned against the cool wall of the hallway, pressing her palms flat against the plaster. Her skin felt hypersensitive, buzzing. The phantom warmth of his skin lingered on her fingertips, the ghost of her kiss on her lips. The scent of bleach was gone; all she could smell was him. The loneliness she’d sought to fill now felt like a yawning chasm, and she’d just danced dangerously close to its edge. She pushed off the wall and fled down the dark hallway to her room, the silence pressing in, heavier and more complicated than before.
The next morning, the scent of coffee and the sizzle of bacon couldn’t scrub away the memory. Debbie moved mechanically, her fingers clumsy on the spatula. The kiss replayed in her mind – the softness of his skin, the shocking intimacy of it. She kept her back to the hallway, willing her pulse to slow.
Matt bounded in, tousled hair damp from the shower, wearing faded jeans and a clean t-shirt that did nothing to hide his frame. "Smells amazing, Debbie," he grinned, grabbing a mug. He looked rested. Oblivious.
"Morning," she managed, flipping bacon with excessive force. "Sleep well?"
"Like a rock," he said, pouring coffee. "Best sleep I've had since moving in, actually. This place really agrees with me." He leaned against the counter, taking a long sip, his hazel eyes scanning the morning news on his phone. Utterly normal. Unaware of the storm inside her.