following

Tom moved without really deciding to. His legs carried him toward the stairs, each step a little too careful, a little too deliberate, like he was sneaking past an enemy line.

The wood creaked faintly under his weight, but the sound of rushing water masked it—steady, intimate, like a private soundtrack meant only for her. His heart hammered against his ribs, every beat pushing blood hot through his veins.

Halfway up the stairs, he paused, glancing back down into the dim, empty kitchen. The house was quiet otherwise. His father was long gone for the day. No one to catch him but the one person he both longed for and feared most.

He continued upward, breath shallow, until the landing opened to the hallway.

And there it was. He carefully pushed open the bedroom door just enough to give him a tiny crack to peer through. Nothing moved. He opened it a little further to take a better look.

The bathroom door closed, but a glow of light spilled from the thin gap at the bottom. A soft hiss of steam seeped into the bedroom, curling faint and warm. Beneath the water’s steady rush, he could hear small sounds—shifts, splashes, the muffled hum of her moving.

He crept into the room, then closer, step by step, until he stood just outside her bathroom.

The air smelled faintly of her—sweet shampoo, floral soap, traces of the perfume she’d dabbed on her wrists last night before going out with Robert. The combination pulled at him like a hook.

He leaned in, pressing his ear gently to the wood. His pulse roared louder than anything else, but even through it, he caught hints of movement inside. Water sloshing higher, then stilling. A faint sigh that cut through him like a knife.

Tom’s throat went dry.

The image assembled in his head whether he wanted it to or not: Sarah easing into the water, the robe slipping off onto the floor, her skin glistening as the steam wrapped around her. The way she would tip her head back, eyes closing, lips parting slightly with relief as the heat soaked into her body.

Every nerve in him screamed to push the door open, to see—just once, not even to touch, just to confirm the images weren’t fantasy. But his hand stayed at his side, trembling.

Instead, he lingered, leaning closer, the faint damp warmth of the steam brushing his cheek through the thin crack of the frame.

Mom’s in there. Naked. Right now.

The thought had weight, pulling him down into a dark, dizzying current.