Chapter 7: Almost Caught

The kitchen at midnight was a different world—shadows and silver moonlight, the familiar daytime chaos transformed into something intimate and secretive. Elijah stood at the refrigerator, pretending to consider his options while his mind raced with thoughts of Sam's promise from the laundry room.

Tomorrow, I'm going to make it impossible for you to keep pretending you don't want this.

Except tomorrow had become today, and he'd spent the entire evening hyperaware of every move she made, every glance she threw his way during dinner, every casual touch when she'd passed him the salt. Her campaign of provocation had reached a fever pitch—stolen glances that lingered too long, fingers that brushed his when exchanging dishes, the way she'd stretched after dinner with a satisfied sigh that had made his mouth go dry.

By the time their parents had gone to bed, Elijah's nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Sleep was impossible. Food was the last thing on his mind. But he needed something to do with his hands, some excuse for being downstairs when he should have been safely locked away in his room.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

Her voice, soft and knowing, made him freeze with his hand on a water bottle. He turned slowly, taking in the sight of her leaning against the kitchen doorway like she'd been watching him for who knew how long.

She was wearing silk pajamas tonight—a matching set in deep blue that made her eyes look like sapphires. The shorts were barely decent, riding high on her thighs, and the top was buttoned just enough to maintain the illusion of modesty while revealing the curve of her breasts beneath the silky fabric.

"I was thirsty," he said, which was technically true. He was thirsty—just not for water.

"Mmm." Sam pushed off from the doorway and moved into the kitchen with predatory grace. "I know the feeling."

Every step she took was calculated, designed to torture him. The silk caught the moonlight streaming through the windows, highlighting every curve and valley of her body as she moved. When she reached for a glass from the upper cabinet, the motion made her top ride up, exposing a strip of pale skin that he wanted to trace with his tongue.

"You're playing with fire," he said roughly, his grip tightening on the forgotten water bottle.

"Maybe I like getting burned." She filled her glass at the sink, but instead of drinking, she turned to face him, her hip cocked against the counter. "The question is: do you?"

The challenge in her voice was unmistakable. After days of careful avoidance, of pretending their encounter had never happened, she was forcing the issue. Making him choose between the safety of denial and the dangerous territory of admitting what he wanted.

"Sam—"

"Don't." She held up a hand, cutting off whatever excuse he'd been about to make. "I'm done with your guilt trips and your noble speeches about protecting the family. We both know this isn't about them."

"Then what is it about?"

"It's about you being scared." She set down her glass and moved toward him, her bare feet silent on the kitchen tiles. "Scared of wanting something that doesn't fit into your perfect little plan. Scared of admitting that maybe what we have is worth fighting for."

With each word, she closed the distance between them until she was standing close enough to touch. The scent of her skin—vanilla and something uniquely Sam—made his head spin with memory and desire.

"I'm not scared," he said, but they both knew it was a lie.

"Prove it." Her hands came up to rest against his chest, the touch burning through his thin t-shirt. "Stop running away. Stop treating me like some dirty secret you need to hide from. Stop pretending you don't want this as much as I do."

Her fingers spread across his chest, finding the rhythm of his racing heart, and Elijah felt the last of his defenses crumble. She was right—he was scared. Terrified of wanting her this much, of needing her in ways that went far beyond physical desire. But he was more terrified of losing her completely, of watching her slip away while he hid behind excuses about propriety and family dynamics.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Everything." The word was fierce, uncompromising. "I want all of you, not just the parts you think are acceptable. I want the man who kissed me like he was drowning, who looked at me like I was the answer to every question he'd ever asked."

Her hands slid up to frame his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I want you to stop apologizing for wanting me and start doing something about it."

The air between them crackled with electricity, thick with years of suppressed desire finally given voice. Elijah could feel his carefully constructed walls crashing down, brick by brick, until there was nothing left between them but truth.

"You have no idea what you're asking for," he said roughly.

"Don't I?" Her thumb traced across his lower lip, the simple touch sending fire racing through his veins. "I've been asking for it for years, Elijah. Every fight, every argument, every moment of friction between us—it was all just foreplay. We were both too scared to admit what we really wanted."

She was right, and they both knew it. Every heated exchange, every moment of tension, had been building to this. He'd been lying to himself, pretending his obsession with her was irritation when it had always been something much more dangerous.

"This is insane," he whispered, but his hands were already moving to her waist, pulling her closer.

"The best things usually are." She pressed herself against him, her body fitting perfectly into the spaces he'd forgotten existed. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you can walk away and never look back. Tell me—"

He silenced her with his mouth, capturing her lips in a kiss that was nothing like their first desperate encounter. This was slower, deeper, a claiming that spoke of possession and surrender in equal measure. She melted against him with a soft sound of satisfaction, her arms winding around his neck as if she'd been waiting her entire life for this moment.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Sam's eyes were blazing with triumph and desire.

"Finally," she breathed against his lips.

But before Elijah could respond, before he could lose himself completely in the feeling of her body pressed against his, a sound from upstairs made them both freeze.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps moving across the floor directly above them.

They sprang apart like guilty teenagers, Sam pressing herself back against the counter while Elijah moved toward the sink with jerky, unnatural movements. His heart was hammering so hard against his ribs he was sure it was audible, and when he risked a glance at Sam, he could see her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths.

The footsteps continued across the ceiling—toward the bathroom, they both realized with relief that was almost painful in its intensity.

"Jesus," Elijah whispered, running a shaking hand through his hair. "That was—"

"Close," Sam finished, but there was something in her voice that wasn't entirely fear. Something that sounded almost like... excitement?

He stared at her, taking in the flush across her cheeks, the way her nipples were visible through the silk of her pajama top, the slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She was aroused by the danger, by the possibility of being caught, and the realization sent heat pooling in his belly.

"You liked that," he said, his voice rough with disbelief and desire.

"Maybe." Her chin tilted up in defiance, but he could see the truth in her eyes. "Maybe I'm tired of sneaking around like we're doing something wrong. Maybe I want—"

The toilet flushed upstairs, followed by the sound of running water. Their father was washing his hands, probably checking his phone, maybe even heading back to bed already. Normal, mundane sounds that reminded them both exactly where they were and what they were risking.

"We should—" Elijah started.

"Go to bed," Sam agreed, but neither of them moved. They stood there in the moonlit kitchen, separated by mere feet of space that felt like an ocean, both of them breathing hard and staring at each other with a mixture of desire and frustrated longing.

The footsteps overhead began moving again—back toward the master bedroom, toward Helen and David and the comfortable normalcy of married life. Soon, the house would be quiet again, and they would be alone with nothing but moonlight and the memory of how perfectly she'd felt in his arms.

"This isn't over," Sam said softly, her voice carrying a promise that made his blood sing.

"No," Elijah agreed, his eyes never leaving her face. "It's not."

She moved past him toward the kitchen doorway, but as she reached the threshold, she paused and looked back over her shoulder.

"Next time," she said, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of absolute certainty, "I'm not letting you walk away."

Then she was gone, leaving him alone in the kitchen with the lingering scent of her perfume and the echo of a promise that felt more like a threat. Or maybe a salvation—he was no longer sure there was a difference.

Elijah stood there for long minutes after her footsteps had faded, staring at the spot where she'd been, replaying every second of their encounter. The taste of her lips, the feel of her body pressed against his, the way she'd looked at him like he was everything she'd ever wanted—it was all burned into his memory with perfect, torturous clarity.

When he finally made his way upstairs, moving carefully to avoid the creaky spots in the hallway, Sam's door was already closed. But as he passed, he could have sworn he heard something—a soft sigh, maybe, or the whisper of silk against skin.

The thought of what she might be doing in there, of whether she was as affected by their encounter as he was, followed him into his own room and straight into dreams filled with blue silk and moonlight and the promise of a tomorrow that would change everything.

Because Sam was right about one thing—next time, there would be no walking away.

Next time, one of them was going to break completely.

And as Elijah lay in his bed, listening to the familiar sounds of the house settling around him, he found himself hoping with desperate intensity that it would be him.