Chapter 4: Chapter 4
The oppressive heat clung like a second skin. Even with the window AC unit in her bedroom chugging valiantly, Debbie felt damp. Summer had arrived with a vengeance, turning the old house into a sauna after sundown. She lay atop her sheets, the thin silk of her nightgown offering scant relief. Sleep was a slippery thing, chased away by the humidity and the memory of a chaste kiss on a sleeping forehead that hadn’t felt chaste at all.
Thump. Shuffle.
Her eyes snapped open. Not the AC. Not the house settling. The sound was familiar now, carved into her nerves over the past weeks. The hallway boards protesting under bare feet. Matt. Sleepwalking. Again. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the sluggish night. The ritual. Arm around his waist. Guide him back. The inner thigh. The kiss that lingered too long in her memory. She pushed herself up, the nightgown sticking to her back.
This time, the air in the hallway felt thicker, heavier. The usual scent of faint bleach was buried under the musk of the hot night. Dim light from her open door spilled onto the worn runner. She moved silently, the soles of her feet cool against the wood. Anticipation warred with dread in her stomach. Just guide him back. Quickly. Efficiently. No lingering.
She rounded the corner towards the bathroom. And froze.
He wasn’t in boxers.
Matt stood near the top of the stairs, facing the dark void below, utterly naked. The pale moonlight from the landing window washed over him, illuminating the powerful lines of his back, the curve of his buttocks, the strong, hair-dusted legs. He was a sculpture carved from warm marble, oblivious to his exposure. The pronounced treasure trail she’d glimpsed before was part of a landscape now – the light dusting of hair across his chest narrowing over defined abs, then thickening again below his navel. Debbie’s breath caught, strangled in her throat. Her gaze travelled, unbidden, down the length of him. He was… fully grown. Undeniably male. The reality of it, the vulnerable intimacy of his nakedness in the silent darkness, hit her like a physical blow.
Move. Now. The command echoed in her head, cutting through the shock. Panic flared. If he woke now… if he turned… She couldn’t let that happen. Not like this. She forced her legs forward, her silk robe whispering urgently against the nightgown. "Matt," she breathed, her voice a thread of sound. "Matt, honey, it's Debbie. You're sleepwalking." She reached him. The heat radiating off his bare skin was intense, primal. She could smell him – clean sweat, sleep, the warm, unmistakable scent of his body. Her hand hovered for a terrifying second, uncertain where to land on the landscape of bare skin. Finally, she settled her arm firmly around his waist, her fingers splayed against the warm, smooth skin of his flank, just above his hip. Solid muscle shifted beneath her touch. He was real, tangible, shockingly exposed.
"Come on," she murmured, injecting calm she didn't feel into her voice. She applied gentle pressure, turning him away from the dangerous drop of the stairs. He moved with that eerie, passive compliance, turning fluidly. His nakedness was overwhelming. She kept her eyes fixed on the back of his head, his tousled hair, avoiding looking down, focusing on the path back to his open bedroom door. Guiding pure skin. Every step felt fraught. The hallway seemed endless.
His room was marginally cooler, the air carrying the intimate scent of him – laundry, sleep, young man. The unmade bed waited. She steered him towards it. "Okay, Matt. Sit." He sank onto the edge of the mattress, his body folding with unconscious grace. He sat slumped, head slightly bowed, eyes still lost in that deep, vacant slumber. The moonlight caught the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder, the flat plane of his stomach. The urge to look away warred with a terrible, magnetic pull. Just the thigh. Settle him. Then go.
She knelt beside the bed. The carpet fibers scraped her knees through the thin silk. Her gaze flickered down his legs – powerful, athletic, dusted with dark hair. Then, inevitably, it traveled upwards. Her breath hitched. There, resting against his thigh, was his penis. Soft, but undeniably there. The reality of his full nudity, the intimacy of this proximity, made her dizzy. She focused fiercely on the inner thigh, the spot Lori had described. Her hand trembled as she reached out.
Her fingertips touched the warm, surprisingly soft skin high on his inner thigh, just below the crease of his groin. She traced the same slow, deliberate line upwards she had before, a soothing stroke meant to anchor him deeper in sleep. Her touch was feather-light, barely there.
He stirred. Not a waking jolt, but a subtle shift. A sigh escaped him, deeper than before. And then, beneath her touch, against the back of her knuckles where they brushed the sensitive inner seam, she felt it. A distinct, involuntary twitch. A subtle thickening, a fractional lift of the soft flesh resting against his thigh. His body, asleep, reacting to the intimate caress.
Debbie snatched her hand back as if electrocuted. Her heart hammered against her sternum, loud enough, she thought, to wake the dead. Or him. She stared, wide-eyed, at the undeniable evidence of his body’s unconscious response. Shame, hot and corrosive, flooded her, mixing with a terrifying spark of something else – a dark, unwelcome thrill that twisted her stomach. He didn’t know. He’s asleep. The rationalization felt flimsy. You did that. The thought was a knife. She scrambled to her feet, backing away, her gaze glued to his peaceful face. He murmured something, a soft, contented sound, and settled deeper into the pillow, seemingly undisturbed by the seismic shift his sleeping body had just caused.
She fled. Out the door, pulling it almost shut, then leaning heavily against the cool wall of the hallway, gasping for air. Her skin burned where she’d touched him. The image of him naked, the feel of his skin, the twitch – it was seared into her brain. The loneliness she’d tried to fill felt like a gaping wound now, and she’d just poured salt into it. She stumbled back to her room, locking the door with trembling fingers, pressing her forehead against the cool wood. The silence of the house was no longer expectant; it was accusatory.
Morning light was harsh. Debbie moved through the kitchen routine like an automaton, scrambling eggs with excessive focus. The coffee pot gurgled, its normal sound grating. Every nerve felt raw, exposed. She heard the shower shut off down the hall. Her stomach clenched.
Matt emerged moments later, damp hair slicked back, wearing gym shorts and a faded university t-shirt. He looked refreshed, stretching his arms overhead, revealing a flash of taut stomach. "Morning, Debbie! Man, I slept hard last night. Felt amazing." He grabbed the orange juice from the fridge, pouring a large glass.
Debbie kept her back to him, flipping the eggs with fierce concentration. "Morning," she managed, her voice tight. "Glad to hear it." He doesn’t know. He can’t know.
He leaned against the counter beside her, taking a long swig of juice. "Weird dreams, though," he mused, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Vivid. Like… tactile, you know? Hard to remember details." He glanced at her profile. "You okay? You look kinda… tense."
Debbie forced a brittle smile, finally turning to face him. She met his hazel eyes, clear and untroubled. The innocence in them was a physical ache. "Just hot," she lied, gesturing vaguely at the window where the sun was already baking the lawn. "Didn't sleep great. This heat." She slid the eggs onto a plate with a clatter. "Here. Eat up."
He took the plate, his fingers brushing hers for a millisecond. She flinched almost imperceptibly. "Thanks. You're a lifesaver." He dug in, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. "Oh, hey, did you…" he paused, fork halfway to his mouth, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Did you maybe hear me up last night? Walking around? I kinda… I think I might have been sleepwalking again. Had that groggy, disoriented feeling when I woke up."
The world tilted slightly. Debbie gripped the edge of the counter. "Sleepwalking?" She tried for nonchalance, busying herself with wiping the stovetop. A spot of grease refused to budge. "I… I didn't hear anything. Must have slept through it." The lie tasted like ash. "Maybe you should… maybe talk to a doctor? If it keeps happening?" She couldn't look at him.
Matt shrugged, swallowing a mouthful. "Nah, it's probably just stress. Finals coming up. New place. You know." He took another bite, watching her scrub the same spot. "Hey, relax, Debbie. It's just a stove. It'll survive." His smile was easy, open, completely unaware of the chasm yawning between them.
Debbie forced her hand to still. "Right. Just… want it clean." She turned away, facing the sink, gripping the cool porcelain. The bright kitchen felt stifling. The cheerful clatter of his fork was deafening. The easy camaraderie she’d started to feel with him was gone, replaced by a minefield of her own making. She’d touched him. Seen him. Caused a reaction he’d never know about. And the knowledge sat between them like a physical presence, invisible to him, crushing her. She couldn't do it again. She wouldn't. But the stifling air pressed in, heavy with unspoken tension and the terrifying echo of a body responding in the dark. The silence before Matt’s next words was thick enough to choke on.
He finished his last bite, the scrape of the fork loud. "Okay," he said, standing up. "Gotta run. Study group." He grabbed his backpack. Paused at the back door. "Hey, Debbie?" She turned slowly. He was silhouetted against the bright morning light, his expression unreadable for a moment. "Thanks. For… everything." Then he was gone, the screen door slapping shut behind him.
Debbie stood frozen, the damp dishcloth hanging limp in her hand. Thanks for everything. The words echoed, twisting in the charged silence he left behind. She looked down at her hands – the strong, gentle hands of a future masseuse. Hands that had just crossed a line she hadn't known was there. The house felt emptier than it ever had before. And infinitely more dangerous.