Over the next few weeks, Ashna neither acted like, felt or was a visitor anymore.

Victor would come out of his bedroom in the mornings to find her barefoot in his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts like it had always been hers. No explanation. No comment. He often wondered when she had come in, what she was wearing when she came in, when she had changed into his shirt, where her clothes were, was there anything under the shirt. Stop it.

Coffee became a daily ritual. Sometimes she made it without waiting for him. Other times, she let him do it, leaning against the counter, looking at his hands. When she reached for a mug, she didn’t say ‘excuse me’, wait for him to move, or step around him—she’d just reached past, pressing her breasts into his back as she took her sweet time fetching it. She knew what she was doing, and knew he knew.

She never lingered around to see his reaction. She just took what she wanted, did what she wanted to do and moved on, leaving him to decide whether it meant anything.

He always decided it didn’t. A part of him disagreed.

“Do you ever get tired of behaving yourself?” she asked one night after the movie, her head on his chest, leg across his legs, like he was a mattress and she belonged there.

“If it matters,” he replied.

“Good. I’d hate to be a bad influence.” She said giggling.

She already was. They both knew it. She was pressing his buttons, pushing the limits and it was just a matter of time. Only question was, who was going to stop the dance, who had more patience—who was going to act first.

***

“Movie night!” Ashna called from his doorway, announcing her arrival from work.

Victor groaned theatrically. “An evening of turning into a mattress and going deaf.”

She laughed. “Occupational hazard. How else are you planning to stay in shape?” She paused just long enough to look back at him. “Popcorn had better be ready. I need a quick shower.”

Then she was gone, disappearing into her apartment before he could respond. A moment later, he heard her door close, the lock turning. Victor shook his head, smiling as he headed to the kitchen. She’d said it like it was nothing. Like it was already decided.

“Change of plans,” he heard behind him just as he was fetching the bag of popcorn from the cabinet. “Shower’s broken. Guess whose shower gets to be graced by my presence today?”

He turned to find her wrapped in a towel, a small bag of toiletries in her hand, hips swaying as she barged through his bedroom toward the bathroom. Of course she wouldn’t ask, what did he expect?

He tossed the bag of popcorn into the microwave and grabbed two beers from the fridge. He could hear the shower running as he walked past the bedroom door. He set the beer on the coffee table, waiting for the popping to stop.

He froze midstride. That sound from the bathroom didn’t sound right—a sharp, breathless gasp.

He crossed the room in two strides, heart spiking, hand on the bathroom door knob. “Ash? You in there?” The absurdity of that question wasn’t lost on him.

“Victor—hurry,” her voice cut off, sharp and strange. Shit.

Steam rushed out to meet him as he turned the knob and entered. Ashna was grinning, one hand resting on the tile, the other on her hip as she struck up a pose, naked under the hot spray. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Water beat against tile, trickled down her body. Steam curled between them. Something curled in him.

“Took you long enough,” she said softly, pleased with herself.

Silence—long enough for the meaning to settle, hearts to start racing, blood to go where it goes in moments like these, eyes to go where they go.

“You going to keep staring…” she said finally, raising an eyebrow, “…or are you coming in?”

Continue the story in Ageless Itch.

All images are AI generated and do not depict any real person.