The next morning

The next morning I stumbled out of bed, back aching. My eyes stung from the tears of last night as I hoped what I saw was merely a dream. I warily hobbled to the kitchen, where I found Mom and Jeremy talking quietly. She was dressed in Jeremy's oversized jersey, her legs bare, and she giggled at something he said while flipping pancakes.

The jersey hem rode up as Mom stretched to grab the maple syrup from the cupboard, revealing the smooth curve of her bare ass—no panties, not even a tan line. My throat tightened when she bent further, the fabric clinging to her silhouette just enough to confirm there wasn’t a bra restraining her either. Her nipples pressed against the thin material, stiff from the morning chill—or maybe from the way Jeremy’s fingers kept brushing her waist as he leaned against the counter.

The moment my foot scuffed against the linoleum, Jeremy’s head snapped up—not with surprise, but with the predatory focus of a wolf spotting wounded prey. His lips curled around a mouthful of pancake, syrup glistening on his chin as he chewed slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. Mom turned next, her movements languid like a cat stretching in sunlight, and the way her jersey slipped off one shoulder made my stomach twist.

Mom’s fingers brushed against my shoulder—light, casual, like she hadn’t spent the night screaming Jeremy’s name into the mattress. "Morning, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice raspy in a way that made my skin crawl. Her palm lingered just a second too long, the warmth of her touch searing through my threadbare t-shirt. I flinched, and her smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it back into place. "Did you sleep okay?"

Jeremy’s smirk widened as he deliberately licked syrup off his fingers, watching me over Mom’s shoulder. "Pancakes, runt?" he asked, sliding a plate toward me with a greasy thud. The stack wobbled—burnt edges, undercooked centers—exactly how Mom *hated* them. But she was already pressing against Jeremy’s side, her hip cocked at that unnatural angle I’d seen last night when he’d folded her in half.

The pancake turned to sawdust in my mouth, but I **** myself to swallow. Mom was already gulping down her orange juice like we were late for a flight, her throat working in quick, frantic pulses. Jeremy lounged beside her, chewing with infuriating slowness, his eyes locked onto mine as he deliberately let syrup drip onto his bare chest. Mom leaned over without hesitation—licking it clean with a kittenish swipe of her tongue that made my stomach churn.

Mom’s fork clattered against her plate as she stood abruptly, her thighs brushing Jeremy’s shoulder in a way that made him smirk into his coffee. "Eat faster," she hissed at me, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the countertop. Her eyes kept darting toward the hallway—toward the bedroom—like she could already hear phantom bedsprings creaking. Jeremy’s bare foot slid up her calf beneath the table, and Mom’s breath hitched before she shot me a strained smile. "We have to leave in 5 minutes!"

"Where are we going?" The words tore from my throat, raw-edged and too loud. Mom froze mid-step, her bare thighs pressed together as she turned—slowly, like a guilty thing—to face me. The jersey's neckline sagged, revealing the angry red bite marks Jeremy had left along her collarbone last night. Her lips parted, but Jeremy spoke first.