Waiting For You

Late afternoon light slanted across the concrete courtyard outside the school, turning the long benches and bike racks into sharp-edged silhouettes. Students clustered in loose groups near the curb where the buses usually stopped, backpacks slung over shoulders, conversations drifting through the cool air in bursts of laughter and complaints about homework.

Evan stood a little apart from them.

Fatigue hung on him like a damp jacket. The day had stretched longer than usual, and the hollow ache in his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since lunch. The refreshed focus he'd gained by a night's sleep with Stacy had long since faded. A dull headache pressed behind his eyes, the kind that came from thinking too hard and worrying too much for far too many hours.

And missing the usual bus hadn't helped his mood either.

The reason for that delay replayed itself in his mind whether he wanted it to or not.

Professor Caldwell had stopped him just as Evan was gathering his books after the final lecture. The old man's voice, calm, deliberate, impossible to ignore, had cut through the rustle of students leaving the room.

"Mr. Mercer. A moment, if you please."

That alone had been enough to make Evan's stomach sink.

Professor Caldwell was not a man who gave his time freely. Tall, narrow-shouldered, with iron-grey hair and sharp eyes that seemed permanently narrowed in evaluation, the professor had a reputation among students for being brilliant, demanding, and quietly intimidating. Most people tried to escape his notice whenever possible.

Being singled out after class rarely meant anything good.

The classroom had emptied quickly, chairs scraping against the floor as the last few students slipped out. Evan had lingered near the front desk while Professor Caldwell closed his laptop with careful precision.

"Tomorrow's pre-exam preparation session," Caldwell had said, folding his hands behind his back. "I understand it will be hosted at your residence."

Evan had nodded cautiously.

"Yes, sir."

A small hum of consideration escaped the older man.

"Ordinarily I do not attend such events. Visiting the homes of individual students can give the appearance of favouritism."

The pause that followed had stretched just long enough to make Evan uncomfortable.

"However," Caldwell continued, "I am told several members of the class will be present. That removes most of my usual objections."

Another pause. Then a faint, almost amused expression crossed the professor's face.

"I should also confess that your wife was... remarkably persuasive."

The word wife still landed strangely in Evan's ears, even hours later.

"Mrs. Mercer made a rather convincing argument that my presence might improve the academic prospects of the entire group. She also mentioned a home-cooked meal."

The corner of Caldwell's mouth twitched slightly.

"A compelling incentive."

Embarrassment had burned across Evan's face at the time. Even remembering it now made his shoulders tense. Professor Caldwell had studied him for a moment longer, those sharp eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"I will be candid with you, Mr. Mercer," he'd said. "Until recently, I had not held the highest opinion of your academic potential."

That part hadn't surprised Evan at all.

"But," Caldwell continued, "after meeting your wife, I was **** to reconsider several of my assumptions."

The words had landed with quiet weight.

"A woman of Mrs. Mercer's intelligence and... discernment... would not devote herself to a man without substance. If someone like her believes in you, then I must assume there is more to you than your previous performance suggests."

A long pause had followed that statement. Then Caldwell nodded once.

"I will be keeping an eye on your progress, Mr. Mercer. With the proper effort, I believe you may yet meet your true potential. I look forward to working with you."

The bus stop bench creaked softly as Evan shifted his weight. What should have been good news instead sat heavily in his chest. Professor Caldwell hated him. Everyone knew that. The man had barely tolerated Evan all semester. And now, suddenly, he wanted to mentor him?

Because of Stacy.

Because the potion's magic had decided to rewrite reality until being married to her magically opened doors.

Jaw tightening, Evan stared down the street where the buses would eventually appear. The magic could keep the perks. Stacy was still Stacy. No amount of universe-altering nonsense erased the years of mutual irritation between them. Ever since she'd entered the family as his stepmother, the two of them had existed in a constant low-grade state of hostility.

Sure, the night before had been different. Sleeping beside her had been strange in a way Evan still didn't quite know how to process. The warmth, the quiet comfort, the deep and dreamless rest; it had all felt disturbingly good. But that didn't erase everything else.

A familiar thought surfaced as he leaned against the bus stop sign, not one informed by magical intervention or reality manipulation, but by routine. Right about now, Stacy would probably be starting dinner. The routine had been consistent for years. Around this time she'd be moving around the kitchen, ingredients coming out of the fridge, the smell of something cooking slowly filling the house.

And she always hated it when he came home late.

A sigh slipped from Evan as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Might as well warn her. The screen lit up beneath his thumb. His messaging app opened automatically as he tapped her name.

But instead of the thread he'd read the day before, an expanded chat history spilled across the screen. New messages filled the thread. A lot of them. The timestamps marched steadily through the afternoon.

Evan frowned. No notification banners had appeared. No vibrations in his pocket. Nothing.

Of course.

The potion's magic again.

Curiosity tugged at him despite himself. A finger flicked back, leading him to where the messages that he remembered had left off. Slowly down the screen, he began to scroll.

The first image made him blink.

Stacy stood in front of a dressing room mirror, holding her phone up to take a picture. The outfit she wore clung tightly to her body, the neckline plunging low enough to show an impressive amount of cleavage.

A message beneath it read:

STACY: Do you like this one?

The next message appeared below that one. Another photo. Different outfit. Shorter skirt. Higher heels.

STACY: Be honest. Too much? Or just enough?

Evan's eyes widened as he scrolled.

Photo after photo filled the screen.

Lingerie.

Revealing dresses.

Half-unbuttoned blouses.

All taken in dressing rooms with bright overhead lights and mirrored walls. And threaded between them were responses. From him. Messages he had never written.

EVAN: You look incredible.

EVAN: Definitely that one.

EVAN: I can't wait to see you in it.

EVAN: God, you're beautiful.

The phone felt strangely warm in his hand.

More pictures appeared.

More messages.

Stacy asking if he liked what he saw. Asking if he wanted more pictures. Asking whether she should try something even more revealing.

And every time, "Evan" responded enthusiastically. Compliments. Encouragement. Flirting.

The scrolling stopped abruptly at the most recent message.

A photo taken in the bedroom at home.

Stacy stood beside the bed, one hand resting on the mattress, the camera angled down slightly as she looked back over her shoulder.

The outfit was... minimal.

Soft afternoon light filtered through the bedroom window behind her, much like the light now slanting across the bus stop where he stood. What she wore could technically be called lingerie, but only in the loosest sense. A thin lace bodysuit hugged her curves, the material sheer enough that shadows of skin showed through the delicate floral pattern. The neckline plunged low, dipping into a narrow V that drew the eye downward before the lace gathered again beneath her chest.

Thin straps crossed over her shoulders, barely more than threads against her skin.

The cut of the bodysuit left most of her back exposed, the lace dipping down to the small of it before disappearing into a high-cut line at her hips. Long legs extended below that delicate edge, bare except for a pair of dark stockings that climbed smoothly up her thighs. The tops of them vanished beneath the lace, held in place by narrow garter straps that pulled the fabric taut.

A pair of heels completed the outfit: black, glossy, and high enough to lengthen the line of her calves.

One hip angled slightly toward the camera, shifting the lace just enough to emphasize the curve of her waist. Loose strands of hair had fallen around her face as she twisted to look over her shoulder, lips curved in a playful little smile that made the pose feel less like a picture and more like an invitation.

And then he noticed her other hand. His eye drifted down to the space between her legs. She was... touching herself... for him to see...

The message beneath it sat glowing on the screen.

STACY: Waiting for you. Miss you already.

Another message followed seconds later.

STACY: Can't wait for you to get home so I can give you a proper welcome.

A third message.

STACY: Bent over the table. In my new favourite outfit. Just for you.

Heat rushed into Evan's face. The phone snapped dark as he locked the screen and shoved it into his pocket like it had burned him.

At that exact moment the bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes. Doors folded open. Passengers shuffled forward. Evan climbed aboard in a daze. The interior smelled faintly of damp coats and rubber flooring. Seats were already half full with students and commuters heading home for the evening. The aisle filled quickly as people squeezed into the remaining spaces.

A spot opened beside an older man halfway down the bus.

Evan sat.

At the front of the bus, the doors closed with a sharp pneumatic thump. They lurched forward into traffic.

His life was unraveling. That much was becoming impossible to ignore. All he had wanted was a normal path. School. A career. Maybe meet someone someday, build a life, start a family of his own.

Instead, thanks to one stupid impulsive decision, everything had twisted sideways.

His father's wife was now his own.

His father's money.

His father's house.

His father's car.

Everything belonged to Evan now. Or at least the world believed it did.

The bus rattled over a pothole as it rolled through an intersection. Conversation hummed quietly around him while the city slid past the windows in streaks of late-day light.

A slow breath filled Evan's lungs. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled the phone back out. He still had to talk to her. Even though he felt like a Peeping Tom when he saw the messages, he needed to open the chat in order to communicate with her.

The messaging app opened again. Thumb hovering briefly over the keyboard, he typed quickly.

EVAN: Going to be late. Probably another hour. Got stuck at school. Sorry.

The message sent. Screen immediately locked to avoid seeing the pictures again.

And then the background image appeared.

Not the plain wallpaper he'd set weeks ago.

The lock screen now displayed a bright photo of Stacy standing on a sunny beach, wearing a tiny bikini and smiling straight at the camera. Sunlight glowed against her skin while she subtly played with a nipple with one hand.

Evan stared at it.

Beside him, the older man leaned over slightly and glanced at the screen.

"That your girlfriend?" he asked casually.

The answer came out before Evan could stop it.

"Wife."

The older man chuckled softly.

"Lucky man."

His attention drifted back to the window. Outside, traffic rolled steadily through the streets.

Phone still in his hand, Evan stared at the photo glowing on the screen.

Lucky.

The word echoed faintly in his mind.

He wasn't sure that luck was the right word.