Chapter 1: Sleep and Shame
The door swung inward too easily, and Niels stumbled across the threshold, one hand already fumbling with the drawstring of his pajama pants. Sleep gummed his eyes, the world a soft-focus blur of white tile and morning light bleeding through the fogged window. He took two shuffling steps toward the toilet before his brain processed the scene.
She was standing between the bathtub and the sink, one arm reaching for the shower tap. Not a stitch on her. Water beaded on her skin from a recent shower—or maybe just the damp air— catching the cold light from the window. She was all long lines and smooth curves, blonde hair darkened at the ends and clinging to her shoulders and back.
Laury.
He froze. His breath lodged in his throat.
Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide. A sharp, shocked gasp sliced through the quiet, humid space. For a second that stretched into an eternity, they just stared. Him, in rumpled plaid pants and a t-shirt with a stretched neck. Her, utterly exposed. The steam from her earlier shower curled lazily in the space between them.
Then she moved, a frantic, graceful whirl. A bath towel, hanging on the rail beside her, was yanked free and wrapped around her body in one swift motion. She clutched it closed at her chest, her knuckles white.
“Niels!” Her voice wasn’t a scream. It was a low, strangled thing, packed with more embarrassment than anger.
“Oh god.” The words fell out of him, dry and stupid. He wrenched his gaze away, fixing it on the grout between the floor tiles. His face was on fire. “Oh my god, Laury, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—the door—”
“It wasn’t locked.” She stated it flatly. He heard the rustle of the towel, a slight shift of her weight. “I just got out. I was about to turn the showers on again to rinse the tub. I forgot to lock it.”
The logic of it penetrated his panic. The door had been unlatched. The shower wasn’t running. He couldn’t have known. It didn’t make the heat in his cheeks recede. The image was seared onto the back of his eyelids: the slope of her shoulder, the glint of light on wet skin, the impossible fairness of her.
“I just needed to pee,” he mumbled, the confession absurd and childish.
A beat of silence passed, thick with everything unsaid. Then he heard a sound—a short, breathy exhalation that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Well, the toilet’s all yours now,” she said, and her voice had changed. The edge of shock was smoothing out, replaced by something wry. Resigned. “Seeing as you’re already here.”
He dared a glance. She was looking at him, her head tilted. The towel covered everything vital, but it clung to damp skin, and her hair was still dripping a dark patch onto the terry cloth over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed pink, but her gaze was steady. Assessing.
“Right. Yeah.” He didn’t move. His bladder, which had been urgently calling the shots seconds ago, seemed to have forgotten its function.
“You gonna stand there all day?” She raised an eyebrow. “Or are you waiting for a formal invitation?”
“No. Sorry. Again.” He shuffled forward, keeping his body angled away from her, a clumsy crab-walk toward the toilet. His knee bumped the wastebasket, sending it skittering a few inches with a plastic rattle. He flinched.
Laury watched his awkward progress, her arms folded tight over the towel. She didn’t try to leave. The bathroom was small; for her to get to the door, she’d have to pass within inches of him. The standoff continued.
He reached the toilet and stood facing it, his back to her. The most mundane of actions now felt like a performance under a blinding spotlight. The silence was a physical weight, broken only by the drip of a tap and the frantic hammer of his own heart.
“You know,” her voice came from behind him, quiet, almost conversational. “Most people knock.”
“I was half-asleep.”
“Clearly.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I really am sorry, Laury.”
“I believe you.” She paused. “You can turn around, you know. I’m decent. Sort of.”
He didn’t want to. Turning around meant facing the aftermath, seeing the look in her eye—pity, amusement, contempt. He turned slowly.
She was leaning against the sink counter now, the towel secured, her posture looser. The initial shock had dissolved, leaving a complicated, uneasy energy in its place. She studied him—his burning ears, his mortified hunch. A faint, not-unkind smile touched her lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“That dramatic, huh?” She pushed a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “It was an accident, Niels. A stupid, awkward, mortifying accident. We’ll file it away and never speak of it again. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said, too quickly. The word felt inadequate.
She nodded, pushing off from the counter. “Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go put some actual clothes on.” She took a step toward the door, forcing him to sidestep. As she passed, the scent of her shampoo—something clean like green apples—cut through the sterile bathroom smell.
Her hand was on the doorknob when she stopped and glanced back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes, he noticed for the first time, were a very pale grey. “For future reference,” she said, and her tone was light, almost teasing, but it pinned him to the spot. “This household has a two-knock minimum. Even at six in the morning.”
Then she was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind her.
Niels stood alone in the bright, steamy room. He let out a long, shuddering breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The urgent need from moments before returned with a vengeance, and he attended to it mechanically, his mind replaying the last two minutes on a relentless, blistering loop. The unlocked door. The gasp. The towel. The way she’d looked at him at the end—not with anger, but with a curious, unsettling awareness.
He flushed, washed his hands, avoided looking at himself in the still-misted mirror. The encounter was over, officially filed away as per their agreement. But as he opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the quiet hall, the normalcy of the morning felt like a thin veneer. Something had shifted. A line, however faint, had been drawn.
From behind the closed door of her bedroom down the hall, he heard the faint thump of a dresser drawer. He stood for a moment, listening to the silence of the house, feeling the unfamiliar, anxious rhythm of his own heart. It wasn’t just embarrassment humming under his skin anymore. It was the echo of a question, sharp and unbidden.
It was the echo of a question, sharp and unbidden.
Niels retreated to his bedroom, the door a barrier he was grateful to close. He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, hands dangling between his knees. The morning sun cut a bright line across the floorboards, illuminating swirling dust. He could still smell the green apple scent in the air, or maybe that was just his memory, working overtime.
What was wrong with him? It was a mistake. She’d said so. It was done.
But his body hadn’t gotten the memo. A low, restless thrum ran under his skin. Shame was the dominant note, hot and prickling, but underneath it was something else, a current he didn’t want to examine. The image of her, slick and bare in the steam, played on a loop behind his eyes. He let out a frustrated groan and fell back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
A soft knock at the door.
He jolted upright. “Yeah?”
The door opened slowly. Laury stood there, framed by the hallway’s shadow. She was dressed now, in soft-looking grey sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt, her blonde hair damp and combed back. She looked casual, but her posture was anything but.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat.
She stepped in and closed the door behind her, not fully, but enough for privacy. The room felt suddenly ten degrees warmer. She leaned against the door, arms crossed, studying him.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Me? Yeah. Fine. You?”
“A little weirded out.” She shrugged a shoulder. “But I’m not mad. I meant what I said. It was an accident.”
“Good. Okay.” He nodded, too quickly. The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable.
Laury pushed off the door and took a few steps into the room. She glanced at his messy desk, the posters on the wall, anywhere but directly at him. “Thing is,” she began, her tone deliberative, “I’ve been thinking. I feel… I don’t know. At a disadvantage.”
Niels blinked. “How?”
“You walked in. You saw… everything. All of me. And I’m standing here in my sweatpants, and you’re in your pajamas, and we’re pretending it’s square. But it’s not. It’s uneven.”
A cold trickle of understanding dripped down his spine. “Laury, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she interrupted, her pale eyes finally locking onto his. There was a challenge in them, a deliberate flatness. “I want it to be even. Then we can actually forget it. A clean slate.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I forgive you for walking in. But forgiveness has terms.” She took another step toward the bed. “I want to see you, Niels. All of you. Then we’re equal.”
The air vanished from his lungs. His heart began a frantic, hammering rhythm against his ribs. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“This is… this is insane.”
“Is it?” She tilted her head. “It’s just a body. You saw mine. Now I see yours. Basic fairness. Unless,” a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips, “you’re scared.”
The gauntlet was thrown. The word ‘scared’ ignited something in him, cutting through the awkwardness and shame with a jagged edge of defiance. He was scared. Terrified. His body was lean, all angles and sharp bones, nothing like the confident, sculpted ideals he imagined. But the dare was there, glittering in her grey eyes.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
He stood up, his movements stiff. He kept his gaze on the window, on the bright line of sun. His fingers went to the drawstring of his pajama pants—the same motion he’d begun hours ago in the bathroom, now loaded with a completely different, terrifying intention. He tugged the knot loose.
The soft fabric pooled at his feet. The cool air of the room hit his skin. He heard her quiet intake of breath, but he didn’t look. He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one rough motion, throwing it onto the bed. Now he was just standing there, in the middle of his bedroom, completely exposed.
He forced himself to look at her.
Laury’s eyes were on him, traveling a slow, deliberate path from his face down his chest, over his flat stomach. He saw her gaze hesitate, then continue downward. Her expression was unreadable—not lustful, not disgusted. Curious. Clinical, almost. It was more unnerving than any leer could have been.
“Okay,” she said after a moment, her voice quiet but steady. “Okay.”
That was it. The transaction was complete. He should move, cover up, something. But he was frozen, pinned by her study. A flush spread across his chest and neck. He was becoming aroused, a traitorous, inevitable reaction he had no hope of hiding. He saw her note it, her eyes flicking back up to meet his. The clinical detachment in her gaze fractured, replaced by something darker, more aware.
“We’re even,” she said, but the words lacked finality. They hung in the space between them, a question masquerading as a statement.
She didn’t leave. She took one final step, closing the distance until she was just an arm’s length away. Her eyes were level with his mouth, then lifted to meet his again. The energy in the room shifted, compressed, and ignited. The pretense of fairness evaporated, leaving behind something raw and electric.
Her hand came up, not touching him, but hovering near his hip. “Now,” she breathed, the word barely audible, “we can forget.”
The words were a lie, and the silence that followed them crackled with the truth. Forget? The air was too thick, too charged. His skin felt hyper-alive where her gaze touched it. Her hand still hovered, a phantom heat near his hip.
“We’re even,” he said, his voice rough. “You said it yourself.”
“I did.” Her eyes dropped to his erection, a frank, unnerving appraisal. “But being even is boring, isn’t it? It’s a neutral state. This doesn’t feel neutral.”
He had no answer. His mind was static.
Laury’s finger finally made contact, a single, light tracing from his hip bone inward. He jerked as if shocked. “Still want to see me?” she asked. Her voice was low, a confidential murmur in the sunlit room. “Naked again, I mean. Not an accident. Not for fairness.”
His throat was desert-dry. He managed a nod.
“There’s a price,” she said. Her finger stopped, a breath away from his cock. She looked up at him through her lashes. The cool confidence was still there, but it was simmering now, fused with something darker, hungrier. “If you want to look, you have to let me touch. And taste.”
The bluntness of it punched the air from his lungs. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Laury, who he’d known since forever, was standing in his bedroom talking about tasting him. The crude, glorious words hung in the space between them, stripping away the last pretense.
“Why?” The question slipped out, pathetic and desperate.
She shrugged, the movement making her t-shirt pull across her chest. A cruel, beautiful smile played on her lips. “Because I’ve seen it now. And I’m curious. And you’re standing there looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the world. It’s a powerful feeling. I want to use it.”
It was the least romantic thing he’d ever heard. It was the most honest. It ignited him.
“Okay,” he breathed. “The price. Okay.”
Her smile widened, just a fraction. “Good.” Her hands went to the hem of her white t-shirt. She pulled it up, not with a seductive tease, but with a swift, efficient motion, and tossed it aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were small, high, her nipples pale pink and taut in the cool air. He made a sound, a choked-off groan.
She didn’t stop. Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her sweatpants and her underwear beneath, pushing them down over her hips in one smooth motion. She stepped out of the pooled fabric, kicking it aside. Then she was just there, naked in the shaft of morning light, more real and terrifying than the blurred vision from the bathroom.
“Come here,” she said, not asking.
He closed the distance. The smell of green apples was stronger now, mixed with the clean scent of her skin and something warmer, uniquely her. She placed a hand on his chest, over his pounding heart, and pushed gently. He sat on the edge of the bed, his legs apart. She stood before him, looking down.
Her hand slid from his chest, down the tense plane of his stomach. Her fingers wrapped around him. He hissed, his head falling back. Her grip was firm, experimental. She stroked him once, slowly, from root to tip, her thumb smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
He dragged his eyes open, his vision swimming. She was watching his face, studying his reactions as she touched him. It was intensely intimate and strangely impersonal, like she was conducting an experiment and he was the fascinating result.
“You like that,” she stated.
“Fuck, yes.”
She dropped to her knees on the floor between his legs. The sight of her there, blonde hair falling around her shoulders, her pale eyes looking up at him from between his thighs, was so obscenely perfect he thought he might come right then.
“You want me to taste it?” she asked, her breath hot against the head of his cock. She was making him say it, making him participate in his own undoing.
“Yes. Please. Laury, please.”
“Please what?”
“Please taste it. Suck it. Please.”
The vulgar permission seemed to satisfy her. She didn’t close her eyes. She held his gaze as her lips parted and she took him into her mouth.
The heat was shocking, wet and silken. Her tongue flattened against the underside of his shaft as she took him deeper, her head beginning to bob in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He cried out, his hands flying to fist in her hair. It was still damp. He didn’t guide her, just held on, anchors in a storm of sensation.
She worked him with a focused intensity, her mouth creating a slick, tight heaven. He could hear the soft, wet sounds, could feel the back of her throat open as she took him deeper. She pulled off with a pop, breathing heavily, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening cock.
“You taste good,” she said, her voice husky. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Her face was flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded. The experiment was over. She was in it now. She licked him from base to tip, a long, slow drag of her tongue that made his thighs tremble. Then she swallowed him down again, faster this time, her hand working in tandem with her mouth.
The coil in his gut wound tight, unbearably tight. “Laury, I’m gonna—“
She didn’t pull away. She hummed in acknowledgment, the vibration shooting through him, and took him deeper. That was all it took. His orgasm ripped through him, a white-hot detonation that bucked his hips off the bed. She took it all, swallowing convulsively, her throat working around him until he was spent, sensitive, and shuddering.
She released him slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stayed on her knees, looking up at him as he collapsed back onto the mattress, breathing like he’d run a marathon. The morning sun was warm on his legs.
After a moment, she stood up. She walked to where her clothes lay, picked them up, and began to dress with the same efficient calm she’d undressed with. She pulled her t-shirt back on, stepped into her sweatpants.
He lay there, exposed, wrecked, trying to find his way back to reality.
Laury walked to the door. She paused, hand on the knob, and looked back at him. Her expression was unreadable again, the mask back in place, but her lips were still slightly swollen.
“Now we’re even,” she said, her voice flat. “And now we can forget.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her. The lock didn’t click. It was just shut.
Niels stared at the ceiling, the ghost of her mouth still on him, the scent of green apples and sex clinging to the air. He knew, with a certainty that chilled his spent body, that forgetting was impossible. Something had begun. It had a price. And he had just paid the first, staggering installment.