Anthony stepped through the front door of his dad's house, dropping his backpack on the floor. The place was quiet—too quiet. Dad had been out of town for three weeks now, some business trip to Singapore that had gotten extended. The kitchen was spotless, which was weird, because his dad never cleaned. A faint smell of lavender drifted through the hallway.

Laura was somewhere in the house. She'd moved in about two years ago after marrying Anthony's father, Richard. She was—objectively, undeniably—a MILF. Blonde hair that fell past her shoulders, a body that looked like she'd been sculpted by someone with expensive taste, and legs that went on forever. She was always dressed to kill, even when lounging around the house. At thirty-eight, she had this way of looking like she belonged on a magazine cover while somehow making it seem effortless.

She was lonely. Richard never called, barely texted. Anthony knew because he could hear her through the walls some nights—watching TV alone, talking to herself, the occasional frustrated sigh that carried through the thin drywall of this older house.

The living room was dim. Curtains drawn. A half-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table next to a book she'd clearly been reading but hadn't finished.

It was late on a Friday night. Anthony had just gotten home from a friend's house, and the house was dark except for the TV in the living room, which flickered blue light across the walls. The clock on the microwave in the kitchen read 1:47 AM.

Laura was sitting on the couch in a silk camisole and thin shorts, her legs tucked underneath her, a glass of white wine on the coffee table half-empty. She'd been drinking for a few hours—enough to have a warm flush across her cheeks and a loose softness in her posture. The TV was playing some late-night HBO show, but she wasn't really watching it. Her eyes had that distant, unfocused look of someone who'd been sitting alone too long with their thoughts.

Her husband—Anthony's stepmom—had been out of town for the better part of two weeks. Dallas, then Houston, then Chicago. Back-to-back business trips. The house felt cavernous with just her in it.

She heard the front door open and close, and she straightened up slightly, reaching for the wine glass.