Trial Run

Evening settled over the house without ceremony. There was no clatter of pans, no low murmur of television from the living room, no sign of Evan's dad's footsteps crossing the foyer tiles. Dusk pressed faintly at the windows, turning them into mirrors that reflected back a space that felt staged rather than lived in.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them.

Silence followed.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the easy quiet of two people winding down after a long day. This silence felt negotiated, brittle, stretched thin over something volatile.

The bed dominated the room: wide, neatly made, pillows arranged with deliberate symmetry. Evan eyed it with distrust. He could feel his body craving its soft surface, the rest and relief it would bring, but he also knew what it meant. It wasn't just sleeping. It was sleeping with her.

Exhaustion clung to the air.

No one had made supper. No one had suggested it. Hunger barely registered beneath the heavier need pressing against bone and muscle alike. What Evan and Stacy needed was sleep, and their experience over the last twenty-four hours told them that sleep was no longer a solo sport.

He had fought hard to stay awake at school. Three times in class, listening to professors drone on, he had been jolted awake with **** arousal, Stacy's face smiling at him in his mind's eye. Three times he'd had to lean forward, quickly throw his books onto his lap, cover his erection. It had been humiliating. It had been terrifying. It had also shown him that there was no way he'd be able to keep living like this for any real amount of time.

Stacy moved first, crossing to the dresser with sharp, clipped motions. Jewellery dropped into a ceramic dish. Shoes slipped off and placed near the closet. Each movement carried a bite. It was obvious that she hated this as much as he did, maybe more. Which was fine. Understandable, really, but it didn't change the facts: Evan needed Stacy, and Stacy needed Evan just as much.

Across the room, Evan lingered near the door longer than necessary. Backpack slid from his shoulder and landed against the wall with a muted thud. Shoes removed slowly. Hoodie dragged over his head. No eye contact.

"Don't," Stacy said abruptly.

The word sliced through the quiet.

Brows drew together. "Don't what?"

"Pretend this is normal."

A humourless breath escaped him. "Wasn't planning to."

Bitterness flashed across her face before she turned away again. Resentment between them felt old, ingrained, yet strangely fresh, like something that had been rewritten without consent. He wanted to last out, to tell her that some of the responsibility for their situation lay with her, but he bit his tongue. Having a fight now wouldn't help them sleep.

The mattress dipped as she sat on her side of the bed. Fingers reached for her phone. Screen glowed against her face as she set an alarm.

Two hours.

"That's it," she said. "We give it two hours."

"Is that enough?"

"Trial run," Irritation sharpened her tone. "We don't even know if this will work. And besides, I don't want to spend any more time than I have to in bed with you."

Those last two words came out dripping with venom. Again, Evan didn't take the bait. Fatigue was crawling over him, relentless, tormenting. He remembered all the images of Stacy flashing through his imagination each time he almost fell asleep, mocking him, enticing him. Dependence tasted sour.

She swung her legs under the duvet, fully dressed. "I'm under the covers. You're not."

His head lifted. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Chin tilted toward the far side of the mattress. "You can sleep over the covers. On your father's side."

Jaw tightened. Again, he held back his response.

Technically, she wasn't wrong. In this altered version of their lives, the house belonged to them. The smaller bedroom belonged to his dad. Yet somehow, the space beside her carried an implication that made his skin prickle.

It should have been his old bedroom down the hall. Door closed. Privacy intact. Space to breathe.

The potion's magic, stupid, reckless, irreversible, had erased that option.

"I don't care," he muttered finally.

She didn't look at him again.

Blinds were drawn tight, cutting off the last threads of dusk. Bedroom door locked. Lamp switched off, plunging the room into shadow broken only by a thin line of light sneaking past the curtains. Under the blankets, Stacy shifted until she found a position that satisfied her. Fabric rustled. A small, irritated exhale escaped her lips.

"And don't touch me," she said into the dark.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Over the covers, Evan eased himself onto the far edge of the mattress. Careful. Measured. As though stepping onto ice that might crack.

Even as a king-size, the bed felt too small. Closeness radiated through layers of cotton and fabric. Heat seeped outward from her body, faint but unmistakable. Even without contact, awareness pulsed between them.

Interloper.

That was the word. Climbing into a space that felt claimed. Occupied. Forbidden.

Resentment toward her had settled in him long ago. He resented how fully she had won his dad's heart. How completely she had inserted herself into their family's lives. How even the physical space of the house seemed to bend to her will.

And he resented most of all how he could never shake his intense attraction to her, no matter how horrible she behaved.

The sheets whispered faintly when she shifted beneath the duvet. Even in darkness, memory supplied detail: long legs, sharp collarbones, hair spilling over pillows like something out of an advertisement.

Sorting through those feelings required energy he didn't possess. Sleep mattered more. Breathing from beneath the covers gradually deepened. Softened. A faint snore emerged, almost delicate.

So her plan worked.

Good.

Eyes closed.

Warmth edged closer without conscious decision. The body sought heat the way it sought oxygen. Muscles unwound inch by inch. Tension drained.

Darkness swallowed thought.

Sound exploded into the room. Shrill. Mechanical. Insistent. For a moment, disorientation ruled. Ceiling above. Sheets tangled around limbs. Body heavy but not suffocatingly so.

Different.

Better.

Warm. Comfortable. Relaxed.

Close.

Close?

Eyes opened.

Stacy stirred inches away, arm reaching across the mattress toward her phone. Movement brushed directly against him.

Against his torso. Against his legs. Stacy was no longer on the far side of the bed. Instead she was pressed along his front, back curved into him, her body fitted along his like they had practised it. Spoon-shaped.

Both of them stopped breathing.

It took her just about one second, and then...

"What the fuck, Evan?!"

She launched upright, ripping herself free of his arms. Mattress bounced violently as she scrambled away.

Cold air hit exposed skin.

He jumped out of the bed quickly.

Problem.

Morning wood strained against thin fabric for a moment, then sprang free, exposing himself to Stacy. Hands flew down instinctively. Only underwear. Gone were his jeans. Gone was his t-shirt. When had he gotten undressed?

Across from him, silk caught the dim light—deep blue, thin straps, hem grazing mid-thigh. Not pyjamas meant for modesty. A revealing silk nightie was the only thing on her body.

Shock widened her eyes before fury replaced it.

"What. The. Fuck. Evan?!"

"I could ask you the same thing," he shot back, gesturing sharply in her direction. "What the hell are you even wearing?"

Her gaze dropped briefly, then snapped back up, mortified and enraged all at once.

"I told you to stay on your side!"

"I did!"

"And I told you not to touch me!"

"I didn't!" Then, a second later, " I mean... I didn't mean to..."

"Your hands were all over me!" she screamed. "Is that what happens now? Whenever I'm not looking you cop a feel?"

"It's not like that," he stammered. "I was asleep, and I didn't try to..."

Evan's words trailed off. He wasn't even sure what the right thing to say was. He shouldn't have touched her, but at the same time, he hadn't intended on touching her at all!

Neither of them moved closer or farther away. Distance felt fragile, like one movement would shatter whatever balance they were trying to achieve.

"How did this even happen?" she demanded, her voice starting to quiet. "I did NOT put this thing on."

"Maybe you, I don't know, sleep walked."

"Maybe you did."

Evan looked at her. Really looked at her. Her face held fury, but also something else. Hurt. Betrayal. Stacy had woken up to a man touching her without her consent. He could understand her feelings. And at the same time, he also hadn't consented to touching her. It wasn't as if he had any control over the magic.

Silence flared between accusations. Reality sank in slowly.

Even though they'd had a rude awakening, the experiment had worked. Rest had come. Real rest. His body felt looser. Head clearer. Not perfect, but undeniably improved.

There was no relief in Stacy's expression, though. Only fury. She wanted blood.

"Put some clothes on," she snapped. "Now."

"Gladly."

"Then get out."

Brows furrowed. "It's my house."

"Not right now it isn't." Her voice shook with anger that barely disguised something else. "I don't even want to look at you. Ever."

Hands tightened around the hem of her nightie as though it were armour. Disgust radiated from her expression. He stood carefully, turning away to grab discarded jeans from the chair. Fabric dragged up his legs with unnecessary ****.

"Next time," she added coldly, "you stay exactly where I put you."

Jaw clenched.

"Next time?" he questioned, a mocking edge slipping into his voice.

"Get the fuck out!"

Door opened. He stepped into the hallway without another word.

Behind him, the door slammed shut.