I feel the door open before I hear it — a shift in the air, a sliver of hallway light cutting across the bed, splitting the darkness like a blade. Maya's mouth is still on mine, but her body goes rigid beneath me, her lips freezing against my own. She knows before I do. Her hands, which were tangled in my shirt, go still.
I turn. Elena stands in the doorway, arms crossed, dark hair spilling over her bare shoulder, and that smile — that knowing, terrible smile — plays at the corners of her lips. She's wearing nothing but a thin silk robe, black, tied loose at her waist, the V of it falling open just enough to show the sharp line of her collarbones, the start of the curve beneath. Her eyes travel over us — Maya sprawled beneath me, my hand still on her bare thigh, the gray shirt bunched up around her waist — with a satisfaction that makes my stomach drop through the floor.
"Don't stop on my account," she says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. The latch clicks. Soft. Final. "I've been waiting for someone to break first." She crosses to the foot of the bed, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and stops. Those brown eyes — our mother's eyes — rake over Maya, then settle on me. "I just didn't think it'd be the baby."
Maya makes a sound — small, caught between shame and defiance — and I feel her try to pull the shirt down. Elena laughs, low and dry.
"Don't bother. I've seen it before. We shared a room for sixteen years." She tilts her head, studying us like we're a painting she's deciding whether to buy. "You know how long I've watched you, Liam? Watch you watch us?"
My mouth is dry. I can't find words. Maya shifts beneath me, and I become aware of how I'm positioned — half on top of her, my weight braced on one arm, my hand still frozen on her thigh where Maya guided it. I pull back, sit up, but Elena shakes her head.
"No. Don't." She steps closer. The robe parts, just slightly, and I catch a glimpse of her hip, the flat plane of her stomach. "I want to see what the baby gets that I don't."
"Elena —" My voice cracks. I hate how it sounds.
"What? You think I'm going to tell Mom?" She laughs again, but there's no humor in it. "I've been waiting for this since I was fourteen, Liam. Since I walked in on you changing and you didn't look away fast enough." She's at the edge of the bed now, close enough that I can smell her — vanilla and something sharper, something like jasmine. "I'm not here to stop you."
Maya sits up slowly, the shirt falling back into place, but she doesn't move away from me. Her shoulder presses against mine, a solid warmth in the dark room. "Elena, what do you want?"
Elena's eyes slide to her, and something flickers there — not anger, not jealousy. Assessment. Calculation. "I want in." She says it simply, like she's asking to join a game of cards. "You've had your turn. Now I want mine."
The room goes very still. Outside, a car passes. The headlights sweep across the ceiling, then vanish, leaving us in darkness broken only by the thin glow of the hallway bleeding under the door.
"You're serious," I say. It's not a question.
Elena reaches down, takes my hand — the one that was on Maya's thigh — and lifts it. She presses my palm flat against her stomach, just above the knot of her robe. I feel the warmth of her skin through the silk, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing. "I've never been more serious about anything in my life."
Maya is watching. I can feel her eyes on us, can feel the shift in the air — from shock to something else, something I don't have a name for. Her hand finds my arm, slides down to my wrist, and squeezes once. Not a warning. Permission.
I don't move my hand. Elena's stomach is warm under my palm, and I can feel the thrum of her pulse, steady and sure. She's not nervous. She's been waiting for this too.