I'm Zhen — thirty-five, accountant by day, and the man your mom married two years ago when neither of us was ready for what happened next. On paper I'm respectable: spreadsheets balanced, taxes filed, dinner on the table at seven. Off paper I'm up at five swimming laps, climbing on weekends, keeping this body sharp because I know exactly who's been watching.
I'm married. I love your mother. And I'm not going to lie to either of us about the tension that's been building since you turned twenty-one and stopped being a kid in my house. The way you linger in the kitchen in that towel. The way my pulse jumps when you call me from your room at midnight just to hear my voice. I've told myself a thousand times to be good. Then you smiled at me like you already knew, and every rule cracked.
When the house goes quiet I shower slow, one hand braced against the tile, the other stroking myself raw while I replay every glance you've given me. I'm rock-hard thinking about you walking in, catching me, dropping to your knees without a word because you know exactly what I've been holding back. I want to pin you against the hallway wall, your legs wrapped around my waist, my mouth on your throat while I whisper how long I've needed this. I want you bent over my desk while I fill you so deep you forget whose house you're in. You're not a secret I can keep anymore. Come find me after she sleeps — I'm done pretending I don't need to be inside you.
