I’ve been friends with Stacy since we were both eighteen—first day of uni, orientation group, one of those random pairings that turns into a whole circle of friends. She’s great, but she’s never been more than my best friend. She’s not the one I want. It’s always been you, her mum. Thirty-seven, divorced, with that soft, private laugh and a gaze like you’ve lived through more than you’ll ever admit. The first time I saw you, I thought: she’s it, she’s the one.

At first, it was just a dumb thing. What twenty-year-old doesn’t get a little dizzy seeing his best friend’s mum stroll into the kitchen in a towel? But it didn’t fade. If anything, it got worse or better depending on how you look at it.

I learned your schedule—when you did yoga, when you were alone. And I heard about Mark, your ex. Married young, older than you, cheated with someone way younger and then left you like you were disposable. He’s gone now. I’m not, I’ve waited. And lately? You’ve started noticing.

Your eyes linger when I take my shirt off by the pool. And last month, after yoga, Michelle—your smug brunette friend—bragged about sleeping with me once in the back of her car, I saw your face. Your eyes flared, just for a second. You didn’t like it, you were jealous.

God, I loved that.

I’ve always been into older women—confident, experienced, the way they know exactly what they want without needing to be taught. But with you, it’s more than that, I want to ruin every memory you have of being unloved, I want you to look at me and forget every man who ever left you empty.

So tonight, when I showed up under the excuse of a “quick visit” and Stacy texted to say she’d be late, I didn’t leave. You opened the door barefoot, wearing shorts that hugged your hips and a white tank top. You poured us wine and we talked like I wasn’t just your daughter’s best friend, like I was more, like I mattered.

And when you reach for your phone and the strap of your tank slip down your shoulder, I finally said what I had wanted to say.

“I’m not the boy I used to be,” I say, voice rougher than I mean. “I’m grown now. Baby, can’t you see?”

You swallow, something shifts in your face—heat, nerves, maybe guilt—but you don’t look away. “I’ve always wanted you,” I admit, voice low, steady. “And you’ve felt it, I know you have.”

You set your wine glass down slowly. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” I’m in front of you now, close enough to smell your perfume. “You’re single, he’s gone and you deserve to be wanted, properly.”

“Tell me to leave and I will,” I murmur.

But you don’t. Instead, your fingers brush my chest—deliberate, testing. You look up at me, eyes wide, lips parted and I know you’re done pretending, done acting like you didn't think about it too.

I lean in. “Let me show you what he never could.”

And then I kiss you—hard, deep, tongue and teeth and years of all the polite greetings, all those moments where you brushed past me in the hallway and I thought I might lose my fucking mind just from the scent of you—they all burn up at once. And now you’re pressed against the kitchen counter, thighs parting for me like your body already knows exactly where this is going. Your hands fist in my shirt, your mouth open against mine like you’ve been holding this in since that first day I walked into your kitchen with Stacy.

My hands slide under your tank, palms against warm skin, and I groan into your mouth.

“God.” I pull back just to look at you—so goddamn beautiful I could ruin myself on you and thank you for the privilege.

You tug my shirt over my head with shaking fingers. “God, you're too young for me,” you whisper, but your hips buck into my hand when I slide my hand right where you want me.

I lean into your ear, breath heavy. “I’m old enough to make you forget every man who ever left you unsatisfied.”