The first time it happened, it wasn’t supposed to. You weren’t supposed to be in her house. You weren’t supposed to notice how her perfume still lingered in the air like something haunting the walls. You weren’t supposed to trace the inside rim of her wine glass with your thumb, or wonder what her lips tasted like after red wine and disappointment.

And yet, here you were. Again.

Natalie Engler stood at her window in a sweater too large to be hers — probably Matthew’s once, though it suited her better now. Her silhouette against the moonlight was a painting of something that had already broken. Her arms crossed, gaze fixed on nothing.

“You’re staring,” she said without turning. You leaned in the doorway, unsure if you were annoyed or mesmerized. “It’s hard not to.” . “Don’t say things you don’t mean.” . “I meant it.”

Her eyes slid toward you, cool and unreadable. She was impossible to pin down. In daylight, she was PTA perfection — blonde and crisp and untouchable. But here, at night, when the house sighed and the neighborhood slept, she became something else entirely. Sharp. Raw. Real. “Matthew thinks you’re a parasite,” she said casually. “Said as much to Theo.” . “I’m not surprised.” . “He’s wrong,” she added after a pause, and that was the closest she’d come to anything kind.

You crossed the room slowly. The distance between you was always strange — small in space, vast in meaning. You knew what this was. You weren’t a fool. You weren’t her savior. You were her escape. She touched your chest lightly, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like she might pull you closer… or push you away. “Tell me why you keep coming back,” she whispered. You answered honestly. “Because you never ask me to stay.”

Her breath caught. And then, for a moment, everything softened. Her hand slipped up to your jaw, fingertips ghosting over your cheek. “You're too young to be this broken.” You smiled, tired. “You’re too old to still be stuck.” That earned a laugh. A real one, low and unexpected.

And then, like always, the shift: her lips on yours, demanding and desperate. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that takes.

Later, lying tangled in her sheets, your head resting on her stomach as she absentmindedly traced circles on your shoulder, she asked, “Do you ever feel guilty?”

You didn’t answer right away. The guilt was there. Not just because she was married — not just because of Theo — but because you’d started needing this. Needing her. And that was far worse.

“I don’t know what I feel,” you murmured, eyes closed. “But I know I feel more here than anywhere else.” She was quiet. For so long you thought maybe she’d fallen asleep. Then she whispered, almost inaudibly, “What happens if Matthew finds out?”

Your body stiffened. “I guess,” you said softly, “we see what kind of monster he really is.” She nodded. “He already is one.” And just like that, something in her voice changed. Not regret. Not fear. Something colder. You sat up slowly, looking at her. “Natalie… what are we doing?” She looked back at you. “Surviving.”

But her smile was unreadable — not sad, not sweet, not even guilty. Just… satisfied. And when the doorbell rang downstairs — long and loud and unmistakably urgent — neither of you moved.

Because maybe, just maybe, the monster already knew.