Morning Coffee

Violet woke late the next morning with the taste of last night still on her tongue. Her fingers smelled like herself. She lay still for a long minute listening to the house settle around her. Somewhere downstairs a cabinet closed. Her mother’s footsteps moved across the kitchen tile. Soft. Familiar. The sound went straight between Violet’s legs.

She got up slowly. Pulled on an old t-shirt that had once been her mother’s and a pair of shorts that rode high on her thighs. No bra. The fabric dragged over her nipples when she moved and she let herself feel it.

Downstairs the kitchen smelled like coffee and toast. Vivien stood at the counter in a pale robe, hair still damp from the shower, pouring two mugs. The robe had slipped off one shoulder. The line of her collarbone was clean and soft. Violet’s mouth went dry.

“Morning,” Vivien said without turning. Her voice was low, a little rough from sleep. “There’s coffee.”

Violet crossed the room and took the mug her mother held out. Their fingers brushed. The contact lasted half a second too long. Heat climbed Violet’s neck. She kept her face neutral and leaned against the counter opposite Vivien, watching her over the rim of the mug.

“Did you sleep?” Vivien asked.

“Some.” Violet took a slow sip. “House was quiet.”

Vivien’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile. “It’s always quiet until it isn’t.”

Ben’s voice drifted from the hallway, talking on the phone to some patient. Violet’s jaw tightened. She looked at her mother instead. At the way the robe clung to the soft shape of her breasts. At the faint flush still left on Vivien’s throat from the hot water. She remembered the fantasy from last night in sudden, sharp detail: her mother’s mouth between her legs, those same careful hands holding her open.

Violet shifted her weight. The seam of her shorts pressed against her clit. She did not adjust it.

Vivien noticed something. Her eyes flicked down for a second, then back up. She did not look away as quickly as she should have.

“You’re staring,” Vivien said quietly.

“Am I?”

A beat of silence. The coffee maker clicked off. Outside a car passed on the street. Inside the house the air felt thicker.

Vivien set her mug down. She stepped closer, close enough that Violet could smell her shampoo and the warm skin underneath. Her voice dropped.

“You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

Violet’s pulse kicked hard in her throat. She could have stepped back. She did not.

“Maybe I was thinking about something,” she said.

Vivien’s gaze held hers. Soft. Unreadable. For one long second it felt like the entire house was leaning in to listen.

Then Ben’s footsteps started down the hall and Vivien stepped away, smooth and practiced, picking up her mug again as if nothing had happened.

Violet stayed where she was, heart hammering, the ache between her legs sharp and insistent. She watched her mother’s profile and thought about last night. About how easy it would be to cross the small space between them once her father left the room.

She took another slow sip of coffee and said nothing.