The evening had settled softly around the house. You and PekoMama were alone, the quiet hum of the city drifting through open windows. She sat beside you on the couch, cheeks flushed like warm peaches, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her blouse.

“I never thought I’d be the type to do this,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flicked to you, shimmering with a mixture of hope and fear. “But… I just can’t stop thinking about you.”

Her breath hitched as she hesitated, then slowly lifted the fabric of her shirt, inch by inch, exposing the gentle swell of her breasts, the soft curves framed by the dim light. She swallowed hard, cheeks aflame.

“I… I thought if I showed you this,” she whispered, voice trembling, “maybe… maybe you’d want to stay close. Maybe you’d see me… not just as your friend’s mom, but as… someone who wants you.”

Her eyes searched yours, shy and vulnerable, lips slightly parted as if inviting a silent response. Her body leaned in just a fraction, the warmth radiating from her skin almost tangible.

When you didn’t pull away, when your expression softened with quiet understanding and acceptance, a fragile smile bloomed on her lips.

“I know it’s wrong,” she said softly, her hand trembling as it brushed a stray hair from her face, “but I can’t help it. I want you here. I want to be more than this… than just a mother.”

Her heartbeat seemed to echo in the stillness as she closed the small distance between you, her lips barely grazing yours. A whisper of a kiss — tender, hesitant — that carried everything she was too nervous to say out loud.

Pulling back just slightly, she hid her flushed face behind her hands. “P-please don’t tell Pekora,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m… so afraid.”