Chapter 6: Unwanted Houseguests

Chapter 6: Unwanted Houseguests

Living together was a unique form of torture Chris hadn't been creative enough to imagine. His home, once a sanctuary of quiet, predictable sterility, had become a pressure cooker. Every creak of the floorboards, every flush of a toilet, was a potential prelude to discovery. The air, usually smelling of Hazel’s faint, citrusy cleaning products, was now layered with the unfamiliar scent of Avery’s jasmine perfume and the medicinal tang of Sam’s anxiety medication.

He came downstairs the first morning to a scene so grotesquely domestic it felt like a hallucination. There, in his own kitchen, stood Avery, humming softly to a song on the radio as she flipped pancakes. She was wearing a pair of Sam’s gray sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, yet somehow, she looked more radiant than ever.

Sam sat at the breakfast nook, the one Chris had designed himself, a steaming mug cradled in his hands. He looked better than he had on the devastated driveway—the hollowed-out shock in his eyes had been replaced by a deep, weary gratitude. He watched his wife with a look of quiet adoration that twisted a hot, ugly knot in Chris’s gut.

“Morning, Chris,” Avery said, her smile as bright and effortless as if she’d been making him breakfast for years. “Pancakes?”

Before he could answer, Hazel materialized at the counter, a silent wraith in her silk robe. She didn't acknowledge Avery or Sam. She moved with a rigid, insular focus, retrieving the coffee pot, pouring a cup, and adding a precise splash of milk. She was retreating further into herself, becoming a ghost in her own home, and her silence was louder and more accusatory than any screaming match.

“No thanks,” Chris managed, his voice tight. “Just coffee.”

He leaned against the opposite counter, gripping his mug, forced to witness the tableau. Avery set a plate of perfectly golden pancakes in front of Sam. She leaned down and kissed the top of his head, a gesture of casual, wifely affection that felt like a physical blow to Chris. This was the woman whose frantic, desperate gasps he had swallowed in a dark basement less than forty-eight hours ago. This was the woman who had clawed at his back in a silent frenzy. Seeing her play the dutiful wife in his kitchen, to a man he now pitied and envied in equal measure, was excruciating. His observational nature, his so-called cheat code, was now a curse, forcing him to notice every loving glance, every gentle touch, every nuance of the life they had together that he was trying to destroy.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, grateful for the distraction, expecting a message from his contractor about the roof repairs.

It was from an unknown number.

Remember the taste of dust?

His heart seized. He snapped his head up, his eyes locking with Avery’s across the kitchen. She was looking at Sam, laughing at something he’d said, but for a split second, her gaze flickered to Chris, and he saw it—the same dangerous, exhilarating glint she’d had at the bowling alley. She was stoking the fire. Right here. Right now.

He quickly typed back, his thumbs clumsy with a mixture of rage and desire. Are you insane?

His phone buzzed again almost immediately. Only if we get caught.

The same words she’d used in her bedroom, a lifetime ago. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, his hand trembling. The air in the room felt thick, unbreathable. He was suffocating.

“I have to make some calls,” he muttered, pushing away from the counter and escaping into the hallway.

The house had become a minefield. The guest room, where Avery and Sam were staying, was at the top of the stairs, directly across from the master bedroom. The hallway was a no-man’s-land, a narrow strip of territory where their two broken worlds could collide at any moment.

Later that afternoon, he was heading to his office downstairs when her door opened. Avery stepped out, a towel wrapped around her hair. She stopped when she saw him, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“Chris,” she said, her voice a low purr.

“Avery.” He kept his tone flat, professional. Neighborly.

From inside the guest room, he could hear the faint sound of Sam on the phone with an insurance adjuster, his voice a low, tired drone. From his own bedroom, he could hear Hazel talking to her mother, her words clipped and strained. They were surrounded. Trapped.

Avery took a step closer. “I never got to thank you,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “For what you did. For offering us this.”

“Anyone would have done it,” he lied.

“No,” she said, her eyes holding his. “They wouldn’t have.”

She moved to pass him in the narrow space. As she did, her hand, damp from her shower, brushed against his. It wasn't an accident. Her fingers deliberately lingered on his skin for a fraction of a second too long, a jolt of heat and promise that shot straight up his arm. It was the under-the-table game, but now the table was his entire house.

The touch was a spark in a room filled with gasoline. It instantly resurrected the memory of the basement—the cold wall at his back, the desperate heat of her mouth, the raw, primal need that had eclipsed everything else. The desire, which he had tried to bury under layers of guilt and domestic tension, surged back, more powerful than ever for having been suppressed. The danger had never been higher, and god help him, he had never wanted her more.

She was already gone, disappearing into the bathroom at the end of the hall, leaving him frozen in place, his skin still tingling from her touch. He stood there for a long moment, the sounds of their spouses’ voices a mocking chorus on either side of him.

This wasn't his house anymore. It was a stage for a sick, thrilling play, and Avery was the director. He had thought offering them a place to stay was an act of control, a way to manage the chaos. He saw now how wrong he was. He hadn't contained the storm; he had invited the tornado inside. And as he stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs, a terrifying thought surfaced: he didn’t want it to leave.