An unexpected guest

The knock comes three times, quick and hesitant, the kind of knock that apologizes for existing. You freeze mid-breath, Cathy's lungs seizing, her heart lurching into a sprint. The bedroom mirror still holds your reflection—naked, flushed, nipples hard enough to cast shadows—and for a split second you just stare at yourself, caught between the image and the sound.

Then your body moves before your mind catches up.

The bathrobe hangs on the back of the bedroom door, a soft gray thing, worn thin at the elbows. You grab it, shove your arms through the sleeves, and yank it closed. The belt is a limp ribbon; you knot it twice, tight, and the fabric pulls across Cathy's chest, the lapels gapping just enough to show the inner curves of her breasts if you move wrong. You don't have time to fix it. The knock comes again, sharper now, and you pad barefoot down the hallway, your soles cold against the hardwood.

Your hand finds the doorknob. You take a breath. You become Cathy.

The door swings open.

He's tall. Taller than you expected, taller than Matt even, with the kind of lanky, stretched frame that hasn't quite figured out where its limbs end. Dark brown skin, deep and warm, the color of coffee with too much cream. Close-cropped hair, a neat fade that suggests he takes care of himself even if nothing else about him says so. Glasses—thick black frames, slightly crooked on his nose—and behind them, wide, startled eyes. He's wearing a hoodie that's two sizes too big, the sleeves swallowed past his wrists, and jeans that hang off narrow hips. His shoulders are bony, his collarbones visible above the hoodie's stretched neckline, and there's a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, like he ran here. Like he worked up the courage to knock.

Cathy's memories supply his name before you can ask. Marcus. Twenty. Lives in 2B, the unit below Lily's. Studies engineering, spends most of his time in the library or locked in his room. Quiet. Polite. The kind of neighbor who holds doors and nods hello but never lingers. Cathy has spoken to him maybe a dozen times in two years—brief exchanges in the hallway, a package she signed for once when he was out. She knows he bakes because she's smelled it through the vents, warm sugar and vanilla drifting up at odd hours. She knows he's shy because he never holds eye contact for more than a second. She knows he's kind because he once carried her groceries up three flights without being asked.

She does not know that he's been in love with her since the day she moved in.

But you do. You can see it in the way his throat bobs when he looks at you, in the way his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides, in the way his eyes flick down—just once, just for a heartbeat—to the V of your bathrobe before snapping back to your face.

"Hey, Marcus," you say, and Cathy's voice comes out warm, easy, a little surprised. "Everything okay?"

He blinks. Swallows. "Yeah, I—sorry to bother you." His voice is deeper than you expected, a low rumble that doesn't match his nervous posture. "I just—I'm out of eggs. I checked every store on the way home and they're all closed for some reason, and I've got a cake in the oven that's going to need them in like ten minutes, and I remembered you and Matt usually have stuff, so I thought—" He stops himself, winces. "I'm rambling. Sorry."

You smile. The dimple appears. "You're fine. I was just about to hop in the shower, but I can grab you some eggs first."

His eyes widen. "Oh—no, I don't want to—I can come back—"

"Marcus." You tilt your head, and the bathrobe shifts, the lapel sliding just a fraction of an inch, revealing the top of Cathy's left breast, the smooth curve of it, the beginning of the nipple hidden by fabric. You watch his gaze snag there, watch him force it away, watch the tips of his ears go dark. "It's fine. Come in. I'll put the kettle on while I'm at it."

He hesitates. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, and you notice his fingers are long, elegant, the kind of fingers that would look good wrapped around—you cut the thought off before it finishes. "Are you sure? I don't want to intrude."

"I'm sure." You step back, pulling the door wider, and the movement makes the bathrobe gape at the thigh. Just for a second. Just enough. "Tea?"

He nods, mute, and steps inside.

The flat feels different with him in it. Smaller. Charged. You lead him down the hallway and into the living room, and you're aware of every sound he makes—the soft scuff of his sneakers on the floor, the way he exhales when he sees the space. He's been here before, Cathy's memory tells you. Once, for a package. He stood in the doorway and didn't come in.

Now he's on the couch, perched on the edge like he might bolt, his knees together, his hands clasped in his lap. You watch him from the kitchen doorway, and you feel it—the power. The way his eyes follow you when you move. The way he's trying not to look and failing, his gaze catching on the curve of your hip under the robe, the bare length of your legs, the way the fabric clings to your breasts when you turn.

You fill the kettle. You set it on the stove. And you turn back to him.

"So," you say, leaning against the counter, letting your weight settle onto one hip. The bathrobe pulls across your chest, and you see his eyes drop again, quick as a blink. "What kind of cake?"

He startles. "What?"

"The cake. You said you've got one in the oven."

"Oh." He laughs, nervous, and rubs his neck again. "It's, uh—it's a honey cake. My mom's recipe. I make it every year for her birthday."

"That's sweet." You reach up to open the cabinet, and the movement lifts the bathrobe, baring the back of your thigh, the lower curve of your ass. You don't look at him. You keep your eyes on the tea bags, on the mugs, on anything but him. But you feel it. The heat of his stare. The way his breath catches. "Your mom lives far?"

"Two hours. I'm driving down this weekend." He pauses. "She's been asking about... well, she's been asking when I'm going to meet someone."

You turn back, tea bags in hand, and raise an eyebrow. "And have you?"

His ears go darker. "No. I mean—not really. I'm busy. With school."

"Mm." You set the mugs on the counter and lean back against it, arms crossed under your breasts. The position lifts them, pushes them together, and the bathrobe's neckline slips, revealing the top of your cleavage, the smooth skin, the shadow between. You watch him try not to look. You watch him fail. "Engineering's tough. I get it."

"Yeah." He sounds strangled. "What about you? How's... how's the season going?"

"Good. We've got a meet next weekend. Matt's coming to watch."

The name lands between you like a stone. His face does something complicated—a flicker of disappointment, quickly buried. "That's cool. He's a nice guy."

"He is." You let the words hang. Then you push off the counter and walk toward him, and you watch his whole body tense. You stop at the coffee table, close enough that he has to look up at you, and you lean down to set the mugs on the table. The bathrobe hangs open, just barely, a thin strip of skin visible from collarbone to sternum. His eyes follow the line of it like a man tracing a map.

"The eggs," you say softly. "I'll grab them."

You straighten up, and the robe closes. He exhales. You turn toward the kitchen, and you feel his gaze on your back, on the sway of your hips, on the bare calves below the robe's hem.

You take your time in the kitchen. The eggs are in the fridge—Cathy's fridge, stocked with almond milk and Greek yogurt and a half-eaten block of cheese. You pull the carton out and set it on the counter, but you don't head back yet. Not yet.

This is cruel, you think. This is dangerous. This is fun.

You've never felt like this before. Not in your own body. Never had this kind of effect on anyone—certainly never on a woman, and never on a man. But in Cathy's skin, in Cathy's body, you're a weapon. You're a bright, sharp thing, and Marcus is a moth, and the way he looks at you makes your pussy ache in a way that has nothing to do with Cathy's memories and everything to do with yours.

He has a nice face. A kind face. And you wonder—God, you wonder—what's under those baggy clothes. If his skin is as warm as it looks. If his hands are as gentle as they seem. If his cock—

You stop the thought. Then you let it continue.

You adjust the bathrobe. You tug the belt loose, just a little, so the knot sits lower. You pull one lapel slightly more open, so the fabric drapes instead of clings. And then you pick up the eggs and walk back into the living room.

He's staring at his hands. He looks up when you enter, and his whole body goes rigid.

"Here you go," you say, and you lean forward to hand him the carton. It's a simple movement—you're on the other side of the coffee table, and he's on the couch, and you just need to cross the distance. But as you extend your arm, the bathrobe shifts. The belt slips. The fabric parts.

It happens in slow motion.

The left lapel falls open, exposing the entire curve of Cathy's breast—the full, round weight, the pale skin, the nipple, pink and stiff and perfectly visible. Then the right lapel follows, and both breasts are out, hanging free, and the robe is open down to your navel. You feel the air on your stomach. You see his eyes go wide, impossibly wide, the pupils blowing out. His mouth opens. No sound comes out.

You freeze. You let the moment stretch—one second, two—and then you gasp, a soft, horrified sound, and clutch the robe closed, spinning away from him. Your face burns. Cathy's face burns. You feel the heat rush into your cheeks, into your ears, and you make a small, embarrassed noise, the kind of noise Cathy would make, the kind of noise a girl makes when she's mortified and doesn't know what to say.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper. "I didn't—the belt—I didn't realize—"

"It's fine." His voice is cracked. Broken. "It's fine, I didn't—I wasn't looking—"

You turn back, and you make yourself meet his eyes. Your face is still red. Your hands are clutching the robe at your throat. You look like a girl who just flashed her neighbor and wants to die. That's what he sees. That's what he believes.

"I'm such a mess," you say, and you laugh, a shaky, self-deprecating laugh. "I swear I'm not usually—"

"It's okay." He's standing now. He's holding the eggs. He's not looking at you. He's looking at the floor, at the wall, anywhere but your face. "I should—I should go. The cake—"

"Right." You nod, and you step back, giving him room to pass. "Of course. Sorry again."

"It's fine." He's moving toward the door. His steps are too fast, too eager, and you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding himself together. But you also see it. The bulge in his jeans. The outline of it, long and thick, pressing against the denim. He's hard. He's really hard. And he's trying to hide it, trying to angle his body away from you, trying to escape before you notice.

You notice.

You follow him to the door, and your mind races. Cathy's memories scream at you to let him go—to be the good girlfriend, the loyal partner, to close the door and forget this ever happened. That's what Cathy would do. Cathy has Matt. Cathy loves Matt. Cathy would never—

But you're not Cathy.

"Marcus," you say, and he stops with his hand on the doorknob. He turns, just slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, guarded, waiting.

You take a breath. The robe is still clutched at your throat. Your face is still flushed. Your heart is hammering, and your pussy is wet, and you have a decision to make.

Let him go or bring him back.

"You forgot your tea," you say softly.

His brow furrows. "What?"

"Your tea. You never got to drink it." You let your hand drop from your throat. The robe stays closed—barely. "It's still warm. Stay. Just for a few minutes."

His Adam's apple bobs. "I—"

"Please." You don't know where the word comes from. You don't know if it's Cathy's voice or yours. But it works. Something in his face shifts. The tension doesn't leave, but it changes, becomes something else, something hungry and terrified all at once.

He lets go of the doorknob.

You smile, soft and grateful, and lead him back to the couch.

He sits, this time not on the edge but against the cushions, his body angled toward you. You sit beside him—not close, but not far. Close enough that when you lean forward to grab your mug, your knee brushes his. His breath hitches.

"So," you say, and you wrap both hands around your mug, holding it to your chest. The robe gapes at the neckline, showing the hollow of your throat, the top of your sternum, the place where your pulse beats fast. "Tell me about the cake."

He talks. He stammers, at first, but he talks. About his mom, about the recipe, about how she taught him to bake when he was twelve and he burned the first three batches and cried on the kitchen floor. You watch his face as he speaks. You watch the way the nervousness fades, replaced by something warmer, something real. He loves his mom. He loves baking. He's the kind of person who cares deeply and quietly, and you feel a strange, unexpected tenderness for him.

But you also feel the heat. The constant, thrumming awareness of your own body—Cathy's body—and the effect it's having on him. Every time you shift, every time you laugh, every time you lift your mug to your lips and let your elbow fall back, the robe slips. Just a little. Just enough. You show him the curve of your shoulder. The slope of your collarbone. A flash of the underside of your breast when you reach for the tea.

He's trying so hard not to look. His eyes keep darting down, then snapping back to your face, like he's trying to pass a test he's already failing. His hands are gripping his mug so hard his knuckles are pale. His thighs are pressed together, and you can see the tension running through him, the way he's holding himself back from doing something he knows he shouldn't.

You wonder what he's thinking. You wonder if he's imagining what you looked like under the robe. You wonder if he's imagining what would happen if he reached out and touched you.

And because you can't help yourself, you wonder what he'd taste like. What he'd feel like inside you. Whether his cock is as thick as the bulge in his jeans suggests. Whether he'd be gentle, or whether the shyness hides something wilder, something that's been locked up for years and is desperate to get out.

You shift, and your knee presses against his thigh. He goes still.

"Sorry," you murmur, and you don't move away.

"It's fine." His voice is low. Rough. He's looking at your face, and his eyes are darker now, the reserve crumbling.

"It's not," you say. You set your mug down. "I was so clumsy earlier. I'm not usually—" You break off, shaking your head. "I don't know what's wrong with me today."

"Nothing's wrong with you." The words come out fast, almost automatic, like he's been holding them back. His face flushes the moment he says them, and he looks away, jaw tight.

Oh, you think. Oh, he's sweet.

And then you think about what it would be like to ruin him.

You push yourself up from the couch. He watches you go, his whole body turning to follow, and you can feel his stare on your back as you walk toward the kitchen. The eggs are still on the couch, in his hands, forgotten. You need to let him go.

That's the plan. That's what Cathy would want.

But as you cross the kitchen threshold, your hand comes up to your chest. You find the belt of the robe, and you tug it. Just a little. Just enough to loosen the knot, to make sure the fabric is held together by the thinnest thread. You don't look back at him. You don't want him to see you doing it.

When you return, the eggs are in his hands. He's standing now—he stood when you left, a nervous habit, and he hasn't sat back down. He's trying to say goodbye. He's trying to leave. But you don't let him.

"Here," you say, and you step close, closer than before, close enough that you can smell him—soap, aftershave, a faint hint of sweat. You offer him the tea, and your arm extends, and his hand rises to take them, and—

The robe falls.

Not all at once. Not some dramatic sweep. It just—slips. The knot comes undone, and the right side of the robe swings open, and then the left, and suddenly you're standing in front of him wearing nothing but a thin strip of gray cotton that does absolutely nothing to hide what's beneath. The robe hangs off your shoulders, framing your body like a curtain that forgot to close. Your breasts are bare—both of them, full and round and tipped with dark pink nipples that are hard from the cool air and from the heat of his gaze. Your stomach is bare. The soft curve of your hips. The triangle of dark hair between your legs, visible just above the place where the robe finally crosses over your pelvis.

His hands stop mid-air. The egg carton drops from his fingers, hits the floor, and neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. He's staring at you—at your breasts, at your body, at everything—and his mouth is open, and his eyes are huge, and he looks like a man who has just seen the face of God and doesn't know whether to worship or run.

Your face burns. Cathy's face burns. You make a sound—a small, sharp gasp—and your hands fly up to cover yourself, but you're slow, too slow, and you let your fingers fall slightly apart, so he can still see. Through the gaps. Through the spaces between your hands. Your nipples peek between your fingers. The underside of your breasts stays bare. You're covering just enough to make it look real, just enough to pretend this is an accident.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, and your voice breaks. "I don't—the robe keeps—I don't know what's wrong with it, I'm so sorry—"

You wait. You give him a beat. And then you lower your hands. Just an inch. Just enough to let the robe fall open again, to let him look one more time before you clutch it closed. You meet his eyes, and you hold them, and for a long, suspended moment, neither of you speaks.

You are standing there, naked under a failing robe, looking up at a tall, shy, beautiful boy with glasses and a hard cock straining against his jeans, in the flat you stole from another woman, and the only question left is what you're going to do next.

His throat bobs.

He doesn't move.