the next morning

The morning came with a gray wash of light through the blinds. Tom blinked awake, his mouth dry, his head thick with the echo of restless dreams. He lay still for a moment, listening. The faint clink of a mug downstairs, the low hum of the coffeemaker, and then a familiar sound—the quiet tread of Sarah’s slippers across the kitchen tile.

He rolled onto his side, staring at the wall, heart drumming harder than it should. It was Saturday. No school, no game, no excuse to keep moving. Just the house, all day. Just her.

Dragging himself out of bed, Tom pulled on sweats and a t-shirt, the kind of lazy morning outfit that didn’t draw comment. He lingered at the top of the stairs, breathing in. The smell of coffee was rich, but layered beneath it was that warm floral trace of Sarah’s perfume—fainter now, dulled from last night, but unmistakable.

He descended slowly.

She was at the counter in her robe, navy silk with white trim, hair loose and tumbling around her shoulders. The robe belted snug at her waist but loose at the neckline, just enough to draw Tom’s eye before he **** it away. She was flipping through a section of the paper, steam rising from the mug she held loosely in one hand.

“Morning, sweetie,” Sarah said without looking up, her voice low, still softened by sleep.

“Morning,” Tom muttered back, trying to keep his tone even, like his pulse wasn’t thundering in his ears. He went straight for the cabinet, pulling a glass just to have something to do with his hands.

Her eyes lifted to him then, just briefly, blue and calm. “Late night?”

He froze for half a beat, then shrugged, pouring water from the fridge. “Yeah. After-party. Lost track of time.”

A faint smile tugged her lips, but it wasn’t judgmental. If anything, it was indulgent. “Mm. Well, you’re young once.” She sipped her coffee, wrist bending in that lazy, elegant way she had.

The robe shifted slightly as she set the mug down, the fabric gaping at the collar before she tugged it closed again absently, unaware—or unconcerned—that Tom had noticed.

The image of her last night flashed in his mind again, the bathroom light painting every curve, her perfume clinging to the air. He swallowed hard, turning back to the sink so she wouldn’t see the tension in his jaw.

Sarah’s voice broke the silence, casual but warm. “We heard about the game. You played well last night. Your father was proud. He wouldn’t stop talking about that last shot.”

Tom stiffened at the mention of Robert. He **** a smile, nodding, but inside he wanted to scream. Proud. Father. Husband. The man who gets to lie beside you every night.

His hand drifted unconsciously toward his pocket, fingertips brushing the coin that wasn’t there—he’d left it upstairs on the nightstand. Still, the phantom weight of it tingled against his palm, whispering possibilities.

Sarah folded the paper neatly and set it aside, stretching in a languid motion that lifted the robe just slightly higher up her thighs as she leaned against the counter. “So what’s the plan for today?” she asked.

Tom stood frozen, water glass in hand, fighting to keep his eyes where they belonged.