The Forbidden Photoshoot

Chapter 5: The Afternoon Drop-Off

Morning came like a secret.

The first thing I felt was the weight of her. Lucia was curled against my side, her head pillowed on my chest, her dark hair fanned across my skin like spilled ink. The sheets were a tangled mess around our legs, and the pale, milky light of dawn was seeping through the curtains, turning the room a soft, hazy gray.

I lay still for a long moment, just breathing her in. The scent of woodsmoke and sex and her, that particular scent that I was beginning to know better than my own. The night had been a long, winding road of hunger and tenderness, of desperate, raw need and slow, reverent worship. I was sore in places I didn't know could ache, and I wanted more.

Her hand moved on my chest, her fingers tracing a lazy pattern. She wasn't awake yet, but her body knew where I was. It had learned, overnight, how to find me in the dark.

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Morning."

She made a sound, a soft, sleepy hum, and tightened her arm around my waist. "Don't move."

"I won't."

I didn't. I lay there with her, watching the light grow stronger, listening to the birds begin their tentative chorus outside the window. The lake was still, a sheet of pale gold. The fire had long since died, leaving only a faint, ashy smell that mixed with the cool morning air.

After a while, she stirred. She lifted her head, blinking at me, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Her hair was a disaster, sticking up at odd angles, and there was a crease on her cheek from the pillow. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Hi," she said, her voice rough and low.

"Hi."

She smiled, a slow, private thing, and kissed my chest. "I dreamed about you."

"Good dreams?"

"The best." She propped herself up on her elbows, the sheet falling away to bare her breasts. She didn't bother to cover herself. She looked down at me with a soft, wondering expression. "I woke up and you were still here."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She reached out and traced the line of my jaw, her touch feather-light. "I know. That's the incredible part."

The morning stretched around us, unhurried. We lay there for a while longer, talking in low voices about nothing, about everything. The way the lake looked in the dawn light. The smell of the air. The way her skin tasted, which I demonstrated, pressing a line of kisses down her throat to her collarbone.

"I should make breakfast," she murmured, her fingers threading through my hair.

"I'm not hungry."

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against my lips. "Liar. I heard your stomach growl an hour ago."

"Then let me have something else first."

She let out a breathless sound as I moved lower, her hands tightening in my hair. But before I could get where I wanted, she pushed at my shoulder, her breath uneven.

"Bath first," she said. "I'm sticky, I'm sore, and I smell like the floor of a fishing boat. There will be time for that later."

I groaned. "You're killing me."

"I'm saving you." She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and I let her go. She stood, stretching her arms over her head, the morning light catching the curve of her spine, the shape of her hips. She looked like a statue carved from gold and shadow.

"Coming?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

I didn't need to be asked twice.

The bathroom was small and warm, the windows fogged from the steam of the shower she'd already started. The claw-foot tub was deep and old, its white enamel chipped in places. She turned off the shower and started running the bath, adding a splash of something that smelled like lavender.

"Is this what models do?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Morning baths with lavender oil?"

"Only the ones who have had the night I just had." She tested the water with her elbow, then turned to me. Her eyes swept down my body, and a slow, appreciative smile curved her lips. "Get in. You'll be surprised how good it feels."

I stripped off the last of my clothes, still damp from the night, and climbed into the tub. The water was hot, almost scalding, and I hissed as I sank down. Lucia followed, settling between my legs, her back against my chest. She let out a long, satisfied sigh as the water closed around her.

"Okay," she admitted. "This was a good idea."

I wrapped my arms around her, my hands settling on her stomach. She leaned her head back against my shoulder, her eyes closing, and I watched the steam curl around us.

"Talk to me," she said quietly.

"About what?"

"About this morning. About what happens when we leave this house and go back to the world."

I was quiet for a moment. The water sloshed gently as I adjusted, pulling her closer. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I know what I want. But I don't know if I'm allowed to have it."

She turned her head, just enough to look at me. "What do you want?"

"You. I want you. In whatever way you'll let me have you."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached up and touched my face, her fingers cool and damp. "I want that too. But I'm scared, Tomas. Not of you. Of everything else. Of the way people will look at us. Of the way Marco will look at us."

The name landed between us like a stone in still water. Marco. Her son. My best friend. The person who had trusted me to drive his mother to a photoshoot, and I had ended up in her bed.

"He's going to find out," she said softly, voicing the thought I'd been circling all night. "The campaign photos will be everywhere. Magazine spreads, billboards, online. There's no way to hide what we did in that bedroom."

"The photos are of a campaign," I said carefully. "We were actors. Models."

"Andres was supposed to be the model," she reminded me. "Instead, you were there. Your face is going to be on those spreads, Tomas. My son's best friend. Elena will put your name in the credits, and Marco is going to see it."

I considered that. I had spent so many nights thinking about Lucia, about the curve of her hip, the sound of her voice, the way she looked at me across the dinner table. I had never once thought about what it would mean when the rest of the world saw us together.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

She was quiet for a long moment. The water had cooled, but neither of us moved.

"I want to tell him," she said finally. "I want to be the one to tell him, before he sees it on a magazine cover in a drugstore."

"That's a big step."

She turned in the water to face me, and I saw the resolve settle in her eyes. "I know it is. But I'd rather he hear it from me than from a stranger's gossip." I cupped her cheek, water trailing down her jaw. "Then we'll tell him together. Whatever comes after, we face it side by side." She kissed me, slow and searching, and the talk dissolved into something wordless. My hands slid down her slick body, finding her beneath the lavender-scented water, and she gasped against my mouth as I touched her. The bath became a slow, languid thing, her leg hooked over my hip, the water sloshing as she rode me to a quiet, trembling finish. Afterward, we dressed in silence, gathered our things, and locked the lake house behind us as the morning sun broke across the water.

The drive unfolded like a held breath. Lucia stared through the passenger window, her reflection ghosting across the glass, her fingers idly tracing the gold pendant at her throat. I kept my eyes on the road, but the silence was thick with everything we hadn't said. The city skyline grew on the horizon, sharp and indifferent, and with every mile the lake house felt less real, more like a dream we'd invented. It was only when we hit the first red light that her hand found mine across the console, her grip brief but sure. "We tell him tonight," she said, her voice quiet but steady. I nodded, and we drove on.

We pulled into her driveway as the afternoon sun cut long shadows across the manicured lawn. The house stood exactly as I remembered it from years of coming here as Marco's friend: the white stucco walls, the terracotta tiles, the heavy wooden door that always seemed to hold a certain authority. I killed the engine and we sat there for a moment, neither of us moving.

"Ready?" I asked.

Lucia exhaled slowly. "As I'll ever be."

I popped the trunk and carried her luggage to the door, the wheels of the larger case clicking softly against the stone path. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, and I followed, the familiar smell of cedar and lavender washing over me. The living room was bathed in that heavy afternoon light, golden and still, the kind of stillness that made you feel like you were interrupting something.

And then Marco was there.

He came from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand, his expression shifting from surprise to something more complicated as he took us in. "Ma. You're back early." His eyes moved to me, then to the luggage in my hands, then back to Lucia. "And Tomas. Didn't expect to see you here."

I set the bags down by the entryway. "I was just dropping her off. The shoot wrapped faster than expected."

Marco's brow furrowed slightly, the way it always did when he was trying to piece something together. He was my best friend, the person who had known me longer than almost anyone, and I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. "Right. Thanks for driving her, man."

"Of course," I said, and the words felt heavier than they should have.

Lucia moved past me, her heels clicking against the hardwood. She kissed Marco on the cheek, a gesture so ordinary it felt almost surreal given everything that had happened between us. "It went well. The campaign, I mean. Elena was very happy."

Marco nodded, but his gaze kept drifting to me. I stood there in the doorway, suddenly aware of how out of place I was, how my presence in this house had shifted into something I didn't yet know how to navigate. I had been in this living room a hundred times before, had eaten dinner at that table, had fallen asleep on that couch while Marco and I watched movies. But now it felt different. Every corner of this house held a new weight, because she was in it, because I knew the sound she made when she came undone, because I had held her in the dark.

"I should get going," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I have some things to take care of before tomorrow."

Marco frowned. "You just got here. Stay for a bit."

I looked at Lucia. She looked back at me, her hazel eyes unreadable, and something passed between us, a silent acknowledgment of the tightrope we were walking.

"Actually," I said, forcing a casual tone, "I could come back for dinner. If that works."

Marco's face brightened. "Yeah, man. Ma, you're cooking, right?"

Lucia smiled, and there was something in it that only I could read. "Of course. Tomas, you're welcome to join us."

I nodded, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I'll be here around seven."

And then I let myself out, stepping into the afternoon sun, feeling the weight of the door as it clicked shut behind me, leaving them both inside, leaving her in that house with the secret we shared still hanging thick in the air between us like something waiting to be spoken.

The engine turned over with a low growl, and I sat there in the driveway, my hands gripping the wheel as I watched the house shrink in the rearview mirror. Seven o'clock. In a few hours I'd be back at that table, sitting across from Marco while Lucia moved between the kitchen and the dining room, pretending the world hadn't tilted off its axis. The drive back to my apartment was a blur of familiar streets I couldn't have described if my life depended on it. My mind kept circling back to the image of Marco standing in that kitchen, the glass of water in his hand, his eyes moving between us like he was searching for something he couldn't quite name. He knew me. He knew her. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a piece of this puzzle was already starting to take shape, even if he didn't know it yet.

I parked and sat in the car for a long moment, the silence pressing in around me. Seven o'clock. In a few hours, I would walk back through that heavy wooden door and sit at that table, and I would have to look my best friend in the eye while the memory of his mother's skin against mine burned underneath every word I said. I thought about calling it off, inventing some excuse about work or family. But I knew I wouldn't. I had promised her we would do this together, and I meant to keep that promise, even if it tore everything apart.

The hour between then and seven passed in a slow, agonizing crawl. I showered, changed into a clean button-down, and stood in front of the mirror for longer than I cared to admit, rehearsing words I knew I'd never say. By the time I pulled back into her driveway, the sun had sunk low enough to paint the sky in shades of amber and rose, and the house glowed warm through its windows like nothing had changed at all.

I knocked instead of letting myself in, a small formality that felt necessary. Marco opened the door, already holding a beer, and clapped me on the shoulder with the easy familiarity of a decade of friendship. "There he is. Come in, man. Ma's almost done."

The dining table was set with care, the kind of care that spoke of Lucia's attention to detail: white plates, cloth napkins, a vase of fresh flowers I suspected Marco had picked up on his way home. She emerged from the kitchen carrying a dish of roasted chicken, her hair loose around her face, a simple apron tied over the dress she'd worn home. She looked like the picture of domestic ease, and yet when her eyes met mine, I felt the floor shift under my feet.

We sat. Marco served himself first, piling his plate with the easy confidence of a man who'd eaten at this table his whole life. I followed his lead, trying to match his casualness, and for a few minutes the only sounds were the clink of silverware and the soft hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

"So," Marco said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "how did the shoot actually go? You said Elena was happy, but you were pretty vague on the details."

Lucia set down her fork. "It was complicated at first. Andres never made it. He pulled something at the gym the day before."

Marco's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, the guy who was supposed to be in the campaign with you? The professional?"

"Yes," Lucia said, her voice carefully neutral as she picked at a stray piece of food on her plate. "Elena refused to cancel. She said the campaign was too important, so she insisted Tomas fill in for him. The whole situation was rather unexpected to say the least."

Marco turned to me, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "You? Modeling?"

I shrugged, trying to keep my voice level. "She was pretty insistent. And it wasn't like I had anything else to do. I figured I'd help out until they found a replacement."

Marco laughed. "Man, I can't picture it. What did they have you do, stand there and look serious?"

"Something like that," I said, and the lie sat on my tongue like ash.

Lucia picked up the thread smoothly. "He was natural. Elena was genuinely impressed. She kept saying he had a look that the camera liked, that raw quality you can't teach. By the end of the shoot, she was already talking about using him in more shoots if he was interested."

Marco looked at me with new eyes. "No shit. Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know," I said. "It's not exactly my world."

"His world is construction," Marco said, half to himself. "But I guess a man's got to eat, right? Extra income doesn't hurt."

Lucia nodded, reaching for her glass of wine. "I've been in this industry for twenty years. I know a lot of people. Photographers, art directors, casting agents. If Tomas wanted to pursue this, even part-time, I could make a few calls. The pay for catalog work is respectable, and campaign shoots like this one pay very well. It could be a comfortable supplement to his salary."

I watched her as she spoke, the way her fingers curled around the stem of the glass, the way her gaze lingered on me just a beat longer than it should have before drifting back to Marco. She was laying groundwork, building a future for us that Marco could accept, a reason for us to keep spending time together that didn't require the truth.

"That's generous of you, Ma," Marco said, and I could hear the warmth in his voice. "Tomas, you should take her up on it. It's not every day you get that kind of opportunity."

"I'm considering it," I said, and the words felt truer than he knew.

Lucia smiled, and in the golden light of the dining room, with her son between us and the secret pressing at the edges of every sentence, that smile was a promise and a warning all at once.

I watched Marco as he processed the idea, saw the gears turning behind his easy grin. He set down his beer and leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression settling over his features.

"Honestly, man, I'm a little jealous," he said, shaking his head. "Not of the modeling part, but of getting to work with Ma like that. I bet she was a pro about the whole thing."

Lucia's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her wine glass. "I've been doing this a long time. It's my job to make the people around me feel comfortable."

"Yeah, but still." Marco looked at her, and there was genuine admiration in his eyes. "When you told me Tomas was stepping in, I was worried for him, not gonna lie. He's my best friend, and I know he's not exactly comfortable in front of cameras. I figured he'd be a bundle of nerves, especially with the kind of shoot you were doing."

My jaw tightened. I forced myself to take a bite of chicken, chewing slowly to buy time.

"It was a little awkward at first," I admitted, the words careful and measured. "The poses were intimate. Close. I didn't know where to look half the time."

Marco laughed but then cleared his throat, his smile faltering just a fraction before he recovered. "I can imagine, man. I mean, it's Ma. She's your best friend's mom. That's got to be weird as hell."

"Weird is one word for it," I said, and I felt Lucia's eyes on me, sharp and knowing.

Marco gestured at his mother with his fork. "But she helped you through it, didn't she?"

Lucia set down her glass, her composure returning like a well-worn garment. "Elena and I both did. The truth is, Tomas, the discomfort you felt is completely normal. Even seasoned models experience it, especially with shoots that push boundaries. The key is understanding that none of it is personal. It's performance. Emotional authenticity, but performance nonetheless. Elena has a gift for creating a safe space, and I know the industry well enough to guide a partner through the physicality of it."

"Sounds like you got the masterclass," Marco said, grinning at me. "Seriously, Ma, you're good at that. I remember when I was a kid and you'd coach me through school plays, telling me to breathe and not rush my lines. You've always been like that."

Lucia's smile softened, and for a moment she looked like the mother I remembered from childhood, the one who made grilled cheese sandwiches and checked homework. "It's easier to teach someone who's willing to learn. Tomas was very patient."

"And she was very professional," I added, and the word felt like a shield and a confession at the same time. "Whenever I started feeling awkward, she'd remind me what the goal was. That the intimacy was part of the story we were telling. It wasn't about me or her. It was about the campaign."

Marco nodded slowly, absorbing this. "So the pictures are going to be pretty intense, huh?"

"They'll be artistic," Lucia said carefully. "The kind of images that get attention for their sensuality, not for anything explicit. Elena knows exactly where to draw the line. It'll be an editorial spread, something that sparks conversation."

"I should probably brace myself for the magazine, then," Marco said with a wry smile. "Seeing my mom in that kind of shoot is going to be a trip. But honestly? I'm proud of you both. It takes guts to do something like that, especially when you're thrown into it last minute."

"It was an experience," I said, and let the words carry the weight of everything I couldn't say.

Marco raised his beer. "To Ma, for being the best in the business. And to Tomas, for stepping up when it counted."

I raised my glass, meeting Lucia's gaze over the rim. The firelight caught her hazel eyes, and I saw something flicker there, hope and fear and longing all tangled together. She raised her own glass, and beneath the table, her foot brushed against my calf, a touch so fleeting I almost wondered if I'd imagined it.

"To new beginnings," she said softly, and Marco, oblivious, clinked his bottle against our glasses with a cheerful laugh.

Marco leaned back, patting his stomach with a satisfied sigh. "You know, man, it's been a while since we just hung out. No work, no errands, no bullshit. Just the two of us shooting the shit like we used to."

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was barely past eight. The evening stretched ahead, full of potential and danger.

"I've got that game recorded," Marco continued, already pushing back from the table. "The one from last week, the late game. I haven't had a chance to watch it yet. You in?"

Lucia began gathering the plates, her movements unhurried. She didn't look at me, but I could feel her attention like a physical weight, the way she tilted her head just slightly, waiting for my answer.

"Sure," I said, and the word came out easier than I expected. "Yeah, I'm in."

Marco's face split into a grin, the same grin I'd known since we were teenagers stealing sips of his father's beer in this very living room. "That's what I'm talking about. I'll grab us another round. Ma, you want to join us?"

Lucia shook her head, carrying the stack of plates toward the kitchen. "I'll clean up. You two enjoy yourselves."

Marco disappeared toward the fridge, and I was left alone at the table for a moment, the remnants of the meal spread out before me. I could hear the clink of dishes in the kitchen, the soft rush of water from the tap. I rose and carried my glass to the counter, moving slowly, my steps measured.

She was at the sink, her back to me, her hands submerged in soapy water. The window above the sink reflected the deepening dusk outside, and in the glass, I could see her face, the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For covering for me. For us."

Her hands stilled. "I'm not covering for us, Tomas. I'm building something. There's a difference."

I wanted to reach for her, to close the distance between us, but I heard Marco's footsteps approaching from the hallway. I stepped back just as he rounded the corner, three bottles of beer dangling from his fingers.

"Helping with dishes?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "You've changed, man. You used to make me do all the cleanup when we were kids."

"People grow up," I said, and I could feel Lucia's gaze on my back, warm and knowing.

"Well, grow up over here," Marco said, jerking his head toward the living room. "Game's already started."

I followed him, sinking into the familiar leather couch that had molded to my shape over a decade of movie nights and late-night talks. Marco flicked on the television and the room filled with the sound of commentators and crowd noise, the bright colors of the broadcast washing over the walls.

For a while, we watched in comfortable silence, the way we always had. Marco commented on plays, I nodded along, and somewhere in the kitchen, the sound of water running and dishes clinking provided a quiet soundtrack. Every few minutes, a soft rustle would come from the doorway, and I'd catch a glimpse of Lucia passing through, tidying this, adjusting that.

At one point she brought us a bowl of olives and a plate of cheese, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle smile. "Don't stay up too late," she said, but her eyes lingered on me, and I knew she wasn't talking to Marco.

"Thanks, Ma," Marco said, already reaching for an olive.

She retreated, and I heard her footsteps climbing the stairs, the soft creak of the master bedroom door closing. The house settled into a different kind of stillness, one that was just the two of us and the glow of the television, and the knowledge that somewhere above us.

"Alright," Marco said, muting the game and turning to face me on the couch. The sudden silence felt louder than the crowd noise had been. "Now that she's upstairs, we can talk properly."

My stomach tightened. "About what?"

"About the shoot, man. What else?" He grinned, leaning forward to grab an olive. "You were in a bedroom with my mother, doing god knows what kind of poses, and you expect me to just let that slide without asking questions?"

I forced a laugh, reaching for my beer to buy time. "It was work, Marco. That's all."

"Work," he repeated, drawing the word out. "See, that's what I keep telling myself too. But then I think about some of the campaigns she's done. The ones where she's wrapped around some guy, looking like she's about to devour him. And I think, man, that's my mom. And you're my best friend. You were in that position."

"It wasn't like that."

"Wasn't it?" He studied me, his eyes sharp despite the easy grin. "Come on, I'm not asking for a play-by-play. I just want to know what it was like. The physicality of it. Having to touch her like that while pretending it's professional."

I took a long pull from my beer, letting the cold bite against my throat. "It was awkward at first. I didn't know where to put my hands. Elena kept telling me to relax, to stop thinking of her as Marco's mom and start thinking of her as a model."

"And did it work?"

"Eventually." The word came out rougher than I intended. "She's good at what she does. She knows how to guide someone through it."

Marco's grin widened. "So she was guiding you. Putting her hands on you, showing you where to go."

"She was doing her job."

"I'm not judging, man. Honestly, if anything, I'm a little impressed." He settled deeper into the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. "I mean, think about it. Most guys go their whole lives fantasizing about someone older, someone they know they shouldn't want. And you got a front-row seat and a hands-on workshop. If I were in your shoes, I'd be counting my lucky stars."

I shook my head, but I could feel the heat creeping up my neck. "It's not like I had a choice. It was that or Elena dragging in some random guy I didn't know."

"Still." He pointed an olive at me like a weapon. "Tell me the truth. There was a moment, at least one moment, where it stopped being professional. Where you actually felt something."

The question hung between us, and I knew he was fishing. He wanted confirmation that his best friend had lusted after his mother, wanted to share in that taboo as a joke, as a story to laugh about later. He had no idea how close to the truth he was.

"There were moments," I admitted, because denying it would have been more suspicious. "She's an attractive woman. I'm not blind."

Marco slapped the armrest, delighted. "There it is! I knew it. I told myself, there's no way Tomas spent two days with my mom looking like that without at least one dirty thought crossing his mind."

"Marco—"

"Relax, man. I'm not mad." He held up his hands, still grinning. "I'm actually kind of glad. It means you're human. And if I'm being honest, I've thought about it too, in a weird way. Not like that, don't get me wrong. But I've wondered what it would be like to watch her. To see her in that element, completely in control, knowing exactly what she's doing to the person on the other side of the lens."

"She is in control," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "That's the most accurate thing you've said all night."

Marco leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "So, worst-case scenario. Hypothetically. Say she kissed you. Say she came onto you, right there in the middle of the shoot. What would you have done?"

My heart hammered. "That's a stupid question."

"Humor me."

"I would have told her I respect her too much to do that."

Marco's grin faded slightly, replaced by something curious, almost probing. "So even if she offered, you would have turned her down?"

"That's what I would have said in the moment." I met his eyes, willing him to drop it. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't have thought about it every night for the rest of my life."

Marco held my gaze for a long moment, then burst out laughing. "Man, you're killing me. You really thought about it, didn't you? All those nights you slept in this house, I bet you were thinking about her upstairs in her room."

I had. Not then, not as a teenager. But I had thought about her, and I was thinking about her right now, upstairs, alone in that bed, with the memory of her skin still warm on mine.

"You're a terrible influence," I said, deflecting.

Marco threw his head back and laughed. "That's what best friends are for, brother." He unmuted the game, the sound flooding back into the room. "But seriously, if something had happened out there, if she'd made a move and you'd gone along with it, I'd want to know. Not because I'd be pissed, but because that's a hell of a story. And I know you, man. You'd never lose that kind of opportunity."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding as the game filled the room. The familiar cadence of play-by-play commentary, the roar of the crowd, the rhythmic thud of the ball on hardwood. It was grounding, almost normal, the way it used to be before everything changed.

For the next hour, we slipped into an easy rhythm. Marco shouted at the screen when his team gave up a turnover, pumped his fist when they hit a three-pointer from downtown. I laughed at his antics, the same way I always had, and for stretches at a time I almost forgot the weight pressing down on my chest.

"You see that pass?" Marco gestured wildly at the screen. "That was a thing of beauty. Textbook."

"Textbook ugly," I countered. "His man was all over him. Lucky bounce."

"Lucky? That's skill, man. You've always been too harsh on Rodriguez."

"He's a choke artist. Always has been. Remember the championship game three years ago?"

Marco groaned. "Don't remind me. I'm still not over that. Fourth quarter, two minutes left, and he throws it away like it's a hot potato."

"Exactly my point."

He shook his head, reaching for another olive. "What's got you in such a critical mood tonight? Usually you're the one defending the underdog."

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the screen. "Just tired, I guess. Long couple of days."

"Right. The shoot." Marco was quiet for a moment, his attention drifting back to the game before he spoke again. "You know, I've been thinking. That campaign's going to be everywhere. Maybe you should let me see some of the photos before they hit the newsstands. You know, so I can brace myself."

"You'll be fine."

"Will I? My best friend in bed with my mom, looking all romantic?" He laughed, but there was an edge to it. "I don't know, man. I keep picturing it and I can't decide if it's hilarious or deeply unsettling."

"It was a job, Marco."

"I know, I know. But tell me one thing, and be honest." He muted the game again, turning to face me fully. "When you were in that bedroom with my mom, when you were in those poses, did you ever feel like you were crossing a line? Like you were doing something you shouldn't?"

The question hit me like a punch to the gut. I forced myself to hold his gaze, to keep my voice steady. "Every single second."

Marco studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he nodded slowly, a grim set to his jaw. "Yeah. I thought so." He unmuted the game, his voice returning to its easy register. "Well, at least you're honest. That's more than most guys would give me."

The game continued, and we talked about other things. His client, a renovation project that was running behind schedule. My latest job site, a foundation pour that had gone sideways. The new restaurant that had opened near our old high school. Safe topics, surface-level, the kind of conversations that filled space without touching anything underneath.

At one point, Marco disappeared to the kitchen and came back with another round. I checked my phone, saw nothing from Lucia. Heard no footsteps overhead. The house remained still, holding its breath.

By the time the game wound down to its final minutes, the clock on the wall read a quarter past nine. Marco leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glued to the screen as his team drove down the court with the shot clock ticking down.

"Come on, come on," he muttered. "Run the play. Don't force it."

The pass came, quick and clean. The shooter rose, released, and the ball arced through the air. For a heartbeat, everything hung in suspension, the whole room silent except for the bass thrum of the arena crowd. Then the ball swished through the net, and Marco exploded off the couch.

"Yes!" He pumped his fist, spinning to face me. "Did you see that? Nothin' but net. I told you, man. I told you."

I laughed, genuinely this time, lifted by his joy. "Alright, alright. He's got a three-pointer in him after all. A broken clock is right twice a day."

"Broken clock, my ass. That's clutch shooting. That's the mark of a champion."

The final buzzer sounded, the broadcast cutting to a studio panel. Marco settled back into the couch, still grinning, and I felt the hour slip away, the easy camaraderie settling back over us like a familiar blanket. The afternoon's tension, the dinner's careful dance, the loaded questions about the shoot. All of it faded into the comfortable rhythm of two friends who had known each other their whole lives.

"Another game?" Marco asked, already reaching for the remote.

I glanced at the clock again. "I should probably head out soon. It's getting late."

"Come on, it's Friday. What else are you doing?"

"I've got an early site visit tomorrow."

Marco snorted. "Since when do you care about early site visits? You used to sleep through alarms like it was an Olympic sport."

"People change."

He looked at me, and for a moment his grin faltered, something thoughtful passing over his features. "Yeah. I guess they do." He set the remote down and leaned back. "Alright, man. But you're coming back, right? This was good. Like old times."

"It was good," I said, and I meant it.

Marco walked me to the door, clapping me on the shoulder with the same easy familiarity he'd shown all night. "Drive safe. And thanks again for taking care of Ma. I owe you one."

The words landed heavier than he intended. "You don't owe me anything."

"Still. It meant a lot to her, having someone familiar out there. She's been doing this alone for a long time." He paused, something flickering in his eyes. "I'm glad you were there."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He opened the door, and the cool night air washed over me, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant jasmine. I stepped out, and the porch light caught the edges of his face as he leaned against the frame.

"Same time next week?" he asked.

I looked past him, at the staircase that led upstairs, at the closed door of the master bedroom. "We'll see. It depends on the campaign schedule."

Marco laughed. "Right. Mr. Model. Don't forget us little people when you're on magazine covers."

I forced a grin. "Never."

He closed the door, and I stood on the porch for a long moment, the muffled sound of the television drifting through the wood. Then I turned and walked to my car.

I stood there for a long moment, the porch light casting my shadow long across the driveway. The house glowed warm behind me, a picture of domestic peace that felt like a lie I was complicit in building. Somewhere inside, Marco was settling back onto the couch, probably scrolling through his phone, oblivious to the storm that was about to break over his head. And upstairs, behind that closed door, Lucia was waiting.

I walked to my car and slid into the driver's seat. The engine turned over with a low hum, and I sat there, hands on the wheel, watching the house in the rearview mirror. The living room light was still on, the blue flicker of the television visible through the curtains. I pictured Marco there, feet up, beer in hand, the easy grin still on his face from the game. I pictured the staircase behind him, the dark hallway that led to her room.

We had agreed to tell him tonight. But tonight had come and gone, and the words had stayed locked in our throats. Every time I'd opened my mouth, something else had come out instead, a deflection, a half-truth, a story about the campaign that we'd both rehearsed until it fit like a second skin.

I thought about going back. Knocking on the door, asking Marco to sit down, telling him everything. I imagined his face, the way it would shift from confusion to disbelief to something uglier. I imagined the sound of his voice, the words he'd throw at us both. And I imagined Lucia in the middle of it, her composure cracking, her hazel eyes filling with the fear she'd confessed in the bath this morning.

I couldn't do it. Not tonight. Not like this.

The porch light clicked off, plunging the house into darkness except for the faint glow of the television. Marco was settling in for the night. The moment had passed, and I felt the weight of it shift, the opportunity sliding away like water through my fingers.

I pulled out of the driveway, the house shrinking in my rearview mirror until it was just another dark shape in a row of dark shapes. The streets were quiet, the city settling into its late-night rhythm, and I drove with no destination in mind, circling the familiar neighborhoods where Marco and I had grown up, where Lucia had been nothing more than a friend's mother, a figure of warmth and authority who existed in a world separate from mine.

That world was gone now. Replaced by something I still didn't have words for.