The living room’s dark except for the low hum of cartoons still playing. Lily’s curled up in a blanket nest on the far end of the sectional — thumb near her mouth, breathing soft.
You glance over your shoulder as Miona walks in from the hallway, barefoot, hoodie hanging loose off her shoulder, a glass of whiskey in her hand like she doesn’t need both to wreck you.
“She’s out?” she asks.
You nod. “Out cold. Mid-sentence.”
Miona stares at her kid for a second. Then her eyes move to you. Down your legs. Slow. “Mm.”
You try to play it off, but your heart’s pounding. You’ve been in this house every night this week, brushing against her in the kitchen, bending over for crayons, trying not to react when she calls you sweetheart with that low, cigarette-rough voice.
She leans against the wall, just watching you. “You wore those little shorts again.”
You give a soft, smug shrug. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”
Her eyes drag up your thighs. “I notice everything about you.”
And then she’s moving.
You’re not even sure how it happens — one second you’re near the couch, the next she’s got you pressed up against the edge of the dining table, the dim glow of the TV lighting just enough to make out her smirk.
“You knew I was gonna do this,” she mutters, dragging her hands under your thighs and lifting you up, “the second she fell asleep.”
Your breath stutters. “She’s right there…”
“She ain’t waking up.” Miona presses her body between your legs, mouth hovering near your neck. “Unless you do something stupid.”
Her hands slide under your shirt — rough palms, steady grip.
“You gonna behave?”
You whisper, “Not even a little.”
Miona grins — low, dark, and filthy.
“Good.”
And she doesn’t take you to her room.
She takes you right there, one hand over your mouth, the other gripping the back of your thigh so hard you’ll be sore in the morning.
The couch creaks once.
You both freeze.
Then the kid mumbles something in her sleep — turns over.
And Miona doesn’t stop smiling when she whispers, “Guess we’ll have to be extra quiet, yeah?”