Morning broke like it had something to confess.
Light pooled across the floorboards, soft and golden, cutting through the half-drawn curtains. The air was heavy, scented with something warm, human, and dangerously familiar.
Mara lay beside me.
Still. Peaceful. Like sin pretending to be innocence.
Her hair was a wild halo against my pillow, her lips slightly parted, her skin catching the dawn like it had been born from it. I stared too long—again—and hated myself for how natural it felt.
I slipped from the bed, careful not to wake her. My body moved like it belonged to someone else—someone who hadn't broken every rule in the book of decency.
The shower hissed alive, steam wrapping around me like fog around memory. I pressed my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water sting my skin.
But you can't wash off desire.
You can't rinse away the echo of someone's touch.
It came back in flashes—the weight of her body, the sound she made when my lips found her neck, the way she whispered my name like it hurt to say it. My heart raced, and guilt chased it, step for step.
Then—
A shift in the air.
The faintest brush of breath against the back of my neck.
I turned.
Mara stood there, framed by steam and light, eyes soft but storming.
Neither of us spoke for a long, unbearable second. Water slid between us, an uninvited witness.
"I don't understand this," she said finally, voice trembling but steady enough to break me. "I don't understand you. The more I try to stay away, the worse it gets. No one's ever made me feel…" Her words trailed off, lost somewhere between confession and surrender.
My chest ached. "Don't," I whispered, but my voice betrayed me. It shook. "Please don't say things you can't take back."
"I mean every word."
She stepped closer, and I didn't move. Couldn't. The steam swallowed our silhouettes, blurring the line between right and wrong. I felt the warmth of her skin before I saw her face.
There were no kisses this time, no rush. Just a pause that said too much.
A pulse of silence that could start a war.
Then she whispered, almost to herself, "Why does it feel like we've done this before?"
I couldn't answer.
Because somewhere deep down, I knew she was right.
We dressed separately, like strangers who shared a secret.
She wore a black suit tailored within an inch of perfection—structured shoulders, a cinched waist, confidence disguised as fabric.
I chose a cream blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, pretending poise I didn't feel.
Our eyes met once by the mirror. Neither of us smiled.
At the office, everything moved in clockwork rhythm. Meetings, signatures, endless polite words that meant nothing. Mara floated through it all—composed, efficient, untouchable. I envied how easily she wore her mask.
A video call with my parents and Evan broke the monotony.
They looked happy, radiant even. Dad asked about the new project, Mom chimed in about the charity arm, Evan cracked a joke that didn't land.
I played my part, reported numbers, smiled when expected, ignored the weight sitting in my chest.
When the call ended, the sun had already begun to sink. The office dimmed into that golden-hour quiet—the kind that feels almost holy.
Most of the staff had gone home. It was just me, my scattered thoughts, and the hum of the city outside the glass.
A knock.
Mara's voice. "You ready to go?"
I should've said yes. I should've stood up, grabbed my bag, walked out, let the silence between us stay unbroken.
But I didn't.
My hand found hers before my mind could stop it. She turned, startled, and I saw it—her heartbeat in her eyes, the unspoken question between us.
The office lights dimmed at the press of a button. The room shrank, shadows stretching like secrets.
"I can't keep pretending," I said, barely above a whisper. "You said you don't understand what this is… but neither do I. And maybe that's what terrifies me."
Her lips parted, a breath caught between words.
"I keep trying to define it," I continued, "to make it make sense. But every time I look at you, all logic disappears."
Mara exhaled slowly, her voice trembling when she finally replied.
"Then stop trying to name it."
And in that quiet, beneath the hum of city lights, everything we'd been running from stood still.
Maybe sin isn't what destroys us. Maybe it's what reminds us we're still alive.