Debbie is a 45 year old single mother with chestnut brown hair. She is training to be a masseuse. Her son has moved away for college. To keep her company and to help pay the bills, she rents out a spare room to Matt, a 21 year old college student with brown hair, hazel eyes, an athletic figure, and a modestly hairy chest with a dark trail of hair down to his penis. Matt has only recently moved in. As summer begins, Matt beings to wear less clothing around the house. He is not shy, and is oblivious to the effect he has on women. Debbie secretly enjoys it. The two share a bathroom where they sometimes run into each other.

Chapter 13: The Nightie Falls

The silence stretched, thick and humming. His gaze was a tangible weight on her skin, right where the silk draped. It wasn’t a leer. It was simpler, more admiring, which was somehow worse.

“Looks comfortable,” Matt said, his voice still relaxed from the shower. He leaned a damp shoulder against the doorframe. A drop of water traced the dark, neat line of hair.

Debbie’s breath caught. She forced a laugh, but it came out thin. “It is. Old and comfortable.” She tugged at the hem, a futile gesture.

“I love silk,” he went on, as if discussing the weather. His eyes followed the fabric where it hugged the curve of her breast, the lace edge resting against her pale skin. “Feels awesome. Kinda unfair you guys get all the good stuff.”

“What do you mean?” The question was automatic, her mind racing far ahead, down paths she had no business walking.

“You know, like… lingerie.” He said the word without a hint of awkwardness, shrugging. The movement made the muscles in his chest and shoulders shift. “Guys get boxers or whatever. Boring. You get this. It’s nice. Looks good on you.”

The compliment landed like a spark on dry tinder. A flush of warmth spread from her core, clashing violently with a spike of maternal panic. He’s a boy. He’s your roommate. He’s twenty-one.

“Well,” she said, turning fully to face him, needing to reclaim some ground, some semblance of adulthood. The motion made the silk whisper against her skin. “The market’s there if you want it. I’m sure they make silk boxers.”

“Not the same.” He grinned, pushing off from the doorframe and taking a step into the bathroom. The space shrank instantly. She could feel the residual heat from his shower, smell the clean, unscented soap on his skin, underneath the faint, familiar musk of him. “No lace. No little… you know, straps and things.”

The image he conjured, of him in lace, was so absurd and yet so electrically specific that Debbie’s mind blanked. Her hands found the cool porcelain of the sink behind her for support. The mirror was fogged beside her, but she could see the clear outline of them both: her, in her revealing nightie, backed against the vanity; him, naked, damp and casual, closing the distance.

“Men’s fashion is tragically underserved,” she heard herself say, the words sounding like they came from someone else, someone witty and unflustered.