The key turns in the lock with a soft click I wasn't expecting to hear—I turn it myself, sliding the brass deadbolt back into place behind me. The house greets me with a deep, unfamiliar quiet. No kids shouting, no TV in the background, no Emma bustling through the hallway with that brisk, purposeful energy she carries like a second skin. I stand in the entrance, my bag still slung over my shoulder, and listen. Nothing. The kitchen clock ticks. The fridge hums. The radiators tick as they cool. I'm alone.

I'd texted Emma to say I'd be early, but she'd already taken the kids out for the afternoon. Ben had a dentist appointment, and Lily needed a nap that wasn't happening in the car. She'd left the spare key under the mat. Said to make myself at home. So here I am, three hours before anyone else is due back, standing in the middle of my sister's quiet house with the afternoon sun slanting through the back door windows and the smell of last night's dinner still faint in the air.

I hang my coat on the hook by the stairs. The motion is automatic, a muscle memory from a hundred visits. The house smells like them—Emma's vanilla hand cream, Bradley's coffee from this morning, the faint trace of Lily's baby shampoo. Familiar. Safe. I press my palm flat against the wall for a second, letting the stillness settle in my chest. I haven't been alone in a house in months. Sam always fills silence with something—the TV, music, his voice narrating whatever he's reading. The quiet feels like a rare animal I don't want to startle.

I make tea. The kettle rumbles, and I lean against the counter, watching the steam curl. Through the kitchen window I can see the garden, overgrown at the edges, the kids' trampoline sitting lopsided on the grass. I carry my mug upstairs, the tea warm through the ceramic, and open the door to the guest room.

The room is the same as always. A single bed pushed against the wall, a pine chest of drawers, a lamp with a shade that's slightly yellowed. The duvet is a floral pattern I remember from two summers ago. The pillow smells faintly of Emma's conditioner, even though she said she changed the sheets. I set my Kindle on the bedside table and take a sip of tea, letting the heat settle in my throat.

The baby monitor sits on the chest of drawers. I've seen it before—Emma used it for Lily until she started sleeping through the night, and then it just stayed there, gathering dust. I glance at it without really seeing it. The plug is in. The little red light is off. Useless. I turn away and sit on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking under my weight.

I pull my Kindle from my bag and settle back against the pillows, propping the duvet around me. The book I've been reading is one Sam would raise an eyebrowat. The blurb promised tension, longing, a slow burn that caught fire. I'd read the first two chapters on the train down, and already I could feel the heat pooling low in my belly.

I find my place and start reading. The scene is a kitchen, late at night. A husband and wife who haven't touched each other in weeks. She's washing dishes, her back to him, the curve of her spine visible through her thin shirt. He comes up behind her, his hands finding her hips. I read the same paragraph twice, letting the words sink in. The way his breath catches when he presses against her. The way her hands still in the soapy water. The way she leans back into him, a surrender that feels inevitable.

I shift on the bed, crossing my ankles. The tea is growing cold on the nightstand, but I don't reach for it. The sentences blur together, and I'm not reading anymore—I'm feeling. The ache between my legs, a slow throb that's been there since the train, since the drive, since I left Sam this morning with a kiss that barely grazed his cheek. I haven't been touched in weeks. Not properly. Not like that.

My thumb hovers over the screen, not turning the page. I'm not sure I want to keep reading. I'm not sure I want to stop. The silence of the house presses in around me, and I realize how safe I feel in it. No one will walk in. No one will knock. I am completely, utterly alone in this room, and the thought sends a shiver down my spine that is not cold.

I set the Kindle aside. The screen goes dark, and I'm left with the pale glow of afternoon light through the curtains and the sound of my own breathing. I press my thighs together, testing the ache. It sharpens. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

My hand drifts to the hem of my shirt, pushing it up. The air touches the skin of my stomach, cool and electric. I imagine his hands—the man from the book, or someone else, someone I don't have to name. Large hands, warm, with calluses from work. Hands that know exactly where to press, where to grip, where to pull me apart. I close my eyes and let the fantasy take shape.

My fingers slide under the waistband of my jeans. The fabric is tight, and I have to shift my hips to make room. I'm already wet—I can feel it, the slick heat against my fingertips. A flush creeps up my chest. I keep my eyes closed, and I'm not in this bedroom anymore. I'm in someone else's kitchen, late at night, my back against the counter, a man's body pressing me into the marble. His mouth on my neck. His hand sliding between my legs.

I let out a small sound, muffled by my own teeth. My fingers find my clit, and the touch sends a jolt through me. I'm trembling. I trace slow circles, letting the pressure build, letting myself take my time. The house is quiet. I can take as long as I want. No one is coming.

The thought—no one is coming—sends a thrill through me. I press harder, my hips rocking into my own hand. I'm picturing him now, the man from the book, his beard rough against my thighs, his breath hot on my skin. I imagine his voice, low and rough, telling me to let go. I imagine his hands gripping my hips, pulling me closer, making me feel wanted in a way I haven't felt in years.

I'm close. I can feel it building, that tight coil in my belly, the heat spreading through my whole body. My other hand finds my breast, squeezing through my bra, and the pressure tips me over the edge. I gasp, my back arching off the bed, my thighs clenching around my hand. The orgasm rolls through me in waves, warm and sharp, leaving me breathless.

I lie there for a long moment, my hand still pressed against myself, my heart hammering in my chest. The silence of the house rushes back in, deeper than before. I can hear my own ragged breathing, the creak of the bedsprings as I shift, the distant hum of the fridge downstairs.

I open my eyes.

The room is the same. The lamp. The floral duvet. The chest of drawers. The baby monitor.

The red light is on.

It glows like a single eye, small and steady, staring at me from across the room. I stare back, my body frozen, my hand still trapped inside my jeans. I don't understand what I'm seeing. The monitor—it's been off. It was off when I came in. I checked. I saw it. The light was dark.

But now it's on. A tiny, unwavering point of red.

I hear my own pulse in my ears. My throat goes dry. I think of Bradley. I think of him coming home early, walking into the kitchen, seeing the monitor light on. I think of him picking it up, confused, maybe curious. I think of him turning the volume up.

I think of him watching me.

I can't breathe. The room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. I pull my hand free, not caring about the mess, and sit up too fast, the world tilting around me. The red light is still on. It doesn't blink. It just stares.

And then, as if it heard me, as if it felt the weight of my eyes on it, the light goes out.

Click. Dark.

The silence is absolute. I don't move. I don't breathe. I just stare at the monitor, waiting for the light to come back on, waiting for something to happen that will tell me I imagined it. But it stays dark. Useless. Like it was when I came in.

But it wasn't. I saw it. I saw it glowing red. And then I saw it turn off.

I don't know how long I sit there. Seconds. Maybe a minute. My mind is a white static of panic and disbelief. I think of Bradley's hands. I think of his voice. I think of the way he looks at me sometimes, across the dinner table, when Emma is talking about her shift or Ben is showing off a drawing. A look that lingers a second too long. A look I've never let myself name.

I pull my shirt down. I zip my jeans. My fingers shake. I look at the monitor again—still dark—and then at the door. The bedroom door is closed. It was closed when I came in. I closed it. I remember the click of the latch.

But the monitor was plugged in. It was always plugged in. I never thought about it. I never even saw it.

I stand up, my legs unsteady. I cross the room and pick up the monitor. It's warm. The plastic has a faint residual heat from being on. I hold it in my hands, staring at the camera lens, and I feel watched even now. I put it down, facedown, on the chest of drawers.

I need to leave. I need to go downstairs. I need to act normal.

But I don't move. I stand in the middle of the guest room, the afternoon light fading, the silence pressing in, and I wait for the sound of a car in the driveway, for a door opening, for a voice—any voice—that will tell me whether anyone was here at all.