Cracks In The Quite

The next morning felt heavier than the rain-soaked air outside.

I woke up alone in the guest bed, sheets twisted around my legs, the faint scent of Elias still clinging to my skin—woodsmoke, clean sweat, something unmistakably him. My body remembered every second of last night: the way he’d held my hips like he was afraid I’d disappear, the low rasp of his voice when he said “mine” over and over, the heat of him spilling inside me until I was trembling and full. I pressed a hand to my stomach, half-expecting to feel something already, which was ridiculous. It had only been a couple of times. But the thought lodged there anyway, warm and terrifying.

Downstairs the house smelled like toast and brewing coffee. Normal sounds. Normal life. Except nothing felt normal anymore.

Amina was at the kitchen table, scrolling her phone with one hand and eating cereal with the other. She looked up when I walked in, gave me a sleepy smile. “You look wrecked. Late night again?”

I forced a shrug, poured myself coffee. “Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about… stuff.”

“Stuff like that guy from your econ class who ghosted you?” She smirked. “Or are we finally admitting there’s someone here keeping you up?”

My hand jerked; coffee sloshed over the rim. “What?”

“Relax, I’m teasing.” She laughed, but her eyes lingered a second too long. “You’ve been weird since you got back. Quiet. Flushed all the time. If you’re hiding a summer fling, at least tell me the juicy parts.”

I laughed—too loud, too brittle—and sat across from her. “No fling. Just… readjusting to being home.”

She nodded, but didn’t push. That was Amina: she trusted me. Always had. The guilt hit like a punch to the ribs.

Elias came in from the back deck a minute later, jacket damp from checking something outside. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, hair still messy from sleep—but when his gaze landed on me, it sharpened. Softened. Went molten for one heartbeat before he locked it down.

“Morning,” he said to both of us, voice even. He moved to the coffee pot, brushed past me close enough that his arm grazed my shoulder. Deliberate. I felt the heat of him like a brand.

“Morning, Dad.” Amina yawned. “You’re up early again. Everything okay?”

“Just couldn’t sleep.” He poured his coffee, leaned against the counter. His eyes flicked to me over the rim of the mug. “Lots on my mind.”

I stared into my own cup, cheeks burning. Lots on his mind. Like how he’d had me on my knees last night, mouth full of him while he threaded his fingers through my hair and whispered, “That’s it, baby, just like that—take me deeper.” Like how he’d flipped me onto my stomach afterward, pressed my face into the pillow to muffle my moans, and fucked me slow and deep until we both shattered.

Amina pushed her chair back. “I’ve got an early shift. See you guys later?”

She hugged me quick, kissed Elias on the cheek, grabbed her bag, and was gone.

The front door clicked shut.

Silence settled like fog.

Elias set his mug down. Slowly. Walked over. Stopped right in front of me.

I looked up. His hazel eyes were dark, pupils blown.

“Zara,” he said quietly. “We need to talk.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “About?”

“About how I can’t stop thinking about you.” He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear—gentle, almost reverent. “About how every time I look at you I want to drag you upstairs and bury myself inside you again. About how fucking terrified I am that I’m ruining everything for you. For Amina.”

I swallowed. “You’re not ruining anything.”

“I might.” His thumb traced my jaw. “But I don’t know how to walk away from this. From you.”

I stood. The chair scraped loud in the quiet kitchen.

“Then don’t,” I whispered.

He exhaled roughly, cupped the back of my neck, pulled me into him. The kiss was softer than last night—less frantic, more aching. Like he was memorizing me. His hands slid under my hoodie, palms warm against my bare back, holding me like I was fragile.

When he pulled back, forehead pressed to mine, he murmured, “I need to know you’re sure. Because if we keep going… there’s no pretending this is just sex anymore.”

I nodded, throat tight. “I’m sure.”

He kissed me again—deeper this time. Then he lifted me onto the counter, stepped between my legs, hands sliding up my thighs.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against my mouth.

“Don’t stop.”

His fingers found the edge of my sleep shorts, slipped underneath. I was already wet—had been since I woke up remembering him. He groaned when he felt it.

“Fuck, baby. Always so ready for me.”

He stroked slow circles over my clit, watching my face like he was learning every reaction by heart. I gripped his shoulders, head falling back.

“Elias…”

“Say it again,” he breathed. “Say my name while I make you come.”

“Elias—”

He pushed two fingers inside me, curled them just right. His thumb kept working my clit in steady circles. I rocked against his hand, chasing the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.”

I shattered—quiet this time, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper, thighs trembling around his wrist.

He held me through it, kissing my temple, my cheek, murmuring soft things I couldn’t quite hear over the blood rushing in my ears.

When I could breathe again, he lifted me down gently. Held me against his chest.

“We have to be careful,” he said. “Amina can’t find out. Not yet.”

I nodded, face buried in his shirt. “I know.”

But even as I said it, a small, panicked voice in the back of my mind whispered: What if it’s already too late?

What if last night had started something we couldn’t hide.

What if I was already carrying the proof.