Ana lay in the dark, her thighs pressed together, her hand stilled where it had been — knuckles against the waistband of her borrowed sweatpants, fingers curled but not yet where they wanted to go. The walls were that thin. She'd heard everything. Every gasp, every murmured name, every wet sound that had traveled through the plaster like it was paper. And then the silence, and then Estella's voice saying not tonight, and then the rustle of bodies settling, and then nothing but rain and her own heartbeat and the heat between her legs that wouldn't stop.
She hadn't moved since they'd finished. Hadn't closed her eyes. Had just lain there in Estella's sweats and Estella's borrowed sweater, staring at the ceiling, her body a live wire she didn't know what to do with. The lamp in their room had clicked off maybe twenty minutes ago. The house had gone quiet. And still she lay there, her hand at her waistband, her breath shallow, the damp heat of her own arousal pressing against the seam of her jeans like an accusation.
She hadn't made a sound. She was sure of that. But her breath caught anyway when she heard the soft footfall in the hallway — bare feet on hardwood, the whisper of a robe, the pause outside her door.
The knock came. Light. Insistent. Three knuckles against the wood, patient, the kind of knock that already knew it would be answered.
Ana's hand stayed where it was. She didn't move it. Didn't pull away. Her body was still humming, still hot, still pressed tight against the memory of sounds she shouldn't have heard — and something in her, something stubborn and reckless, refused to pretend otherwise.
The handle turned. A fraction. Then stilled.
"Ana?" Estella's voice, hoarse and low — the same voice she'd heard through the wall, the one that had gasped John's name, the one that had said not tonight with a steadiness that had made Ana's chest ache. "Can I come in?"
Ana's throat closed. Her hand was still at her waistband, her fingers still curled against the fabric, the heat of her own body a confession she hadn't meant to keep. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"Yeah." The word came out rough, scraped. She cleared her throat. "Door's not locked."
The door clicked open an inch, and a sliver of lamplight fell across the bed — a warm gold blade that cut through the dark and landed on Ana's chest, on the borrowed sweater, on the hand she still hadn't moved from her waistband. She didn't pull it away. She held Estella's gaze instead, let her see exactly where Ana's hand was, let her read the heat in the room, the flush on her skin, the way her thighs stayed pressed together.
Estella's eyes flicked down. Caught it. Held.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The rain filled the silence. The light from the hallway carved a shape across the rug, and Estella stood in the doorway in nothing but a thin robe — her dark curls loose and tangled, her lips slightly swollen, her eyes heavy-lidded in a way that wasn't tiredness but aftermath. She looked at Ana. Ana looked back. The air between them was thick with everything that had passed through these walls in the last hour.
"You heard," Estella said. Not a question.
Ana's jaw tightened. She could lie. She could say she'd fallen asleep, that the rain had drowned it out, that she hadn't pressed her hand over her mouth and listened to every wet, desperate sound. But Estella was looking at her with those large brown eyes, soft and knowing, and Ana had never been good at lying to people who actually saw her.
"The walls are thin," Ana said. Her hand still hadn't moved. She was acutely aware of it — the warmth of her own body, the fabric of the sweatpants, the fact that Estella could see exactly where her fingers were resting. "Kinda hard not to."
Estella's expression didn't change. But something in her eyes shifted — a softening, a curiosity, a hunger that looked a lot like the one Ana was trying to ignore in her own chest.
"Can I sit?" Estella asked.
Ana nodded. Didn't trust her voice.
Estella stepped inside and closed the door behind her — not all the way, just enough to dim the light, to make the room feel like its own world again. She crossed to the edge of the bed and sat, the mattress dipping under her weight, her thigh inches from Ana's hip. She smelled like sex and perfume and John's skin, a mixture that made Ana's stomach tighten.
"I knew you'd hear," Estella said quietly. She was looking at her hands now — her fingers tracing a pattern on her own knee, nervous and deliberate. "I thought about coming to check on you earlier. But I didn't know what to say." She looked up. "I still don't."
Ana's throat ached. She wanted to say something sharp, something that would break the tension — you could have just not fucked him where I could hear — but the words died before they reached her mouth. Because that wasn't the truth. The truth was she'd listened on purpose. The truth was her hand had been inching toward her own heat before the knock came, and she'd only stopped because she'd heard footsteps. The truth was she wanted things she didn't have words for, and Estella was sitting on her bed in a thin robe, looking at her like she might already know.
"It's fine," Ana managed. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "It's your house. Your bed. You don't owe me silence."
"That's not—" Estella stopped. Pressed her lips together. Her hand stopped tracing patterns on her knee and went still. "That's not what I meant."
The silence stretched. Ana could hear the rain on the roof, the soft creak of the house settling, her own heartbeat in her ears. Estella's thigh was warm against the mattress, close enough that Ana could feel the heat radiating off her skin.
"What did you mean?" Ana asked.
Estella turned to face her fully. The lamplight caught the curve of her cheek, the shadows under her eyes, the slight wetness at the corner of her mouth where she'd bitten her lip. She looked raw. Looked real. Looked like a woman who'd just been thoroughly fucked and was still processing what that meant.
"I mean," Estella said slowly, "I don't know if it's your house. But it might be." She held Ana's gaze. "I told John and Gloria tonight that I could open the door for you. If I wanted to. If you wanted me to."
Ana's breath caught. Her hand tightened against her waistband — a small, involuntary movement, one she couldn't hide. Estella's eyes dropped to it, then rose again, and there was something in her face that wasn't surprise. It was recognition.
"You want that," Estella said. Soft. Not a question.
Ana's mouth went dry. She thought about lying. She thought about deflecting, about making a joke, about pulling her hand out of her waistband and pretending this conversation wasn't happening. But Estella was looking at her with those large, knowing eyes, and Ana was so tired of pretending she didn't want what she wanted.
"I don't know what I want," Ana said. It came out honest, raw, scraped clean of pretense. "I showed up at your door soaking wet with a bullshit story and a bag full of secrets. I'm not—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I'm not asking for anything. I just needed a place to hide."
Estella's hand moved. Slow, deliberate, giving Ana every chance to pull away. It crossed the inches between them and settled on Ana's knee — warm, light, her fingers resting against the borrowed sweatpants like she was testing whether Ana would flinch.
Ana didn't flinch.
"You can hide here," Estella said. "For as long as you need. That's not conditional." Her thumb traced a slow circle on Ana's knee, and Ana's breath stuttered. "But I'm not going to pretend I don't see the way you look at him. At us."
Ana's hand moved. Finally, after all that time frozen at her waistband, she pulled it free — but not to hide. She reached out, slow and deliberate the way Estella had, and let her fingers brush against Estella's wrist. The skin was warm. The pulse was fast.
"You're shaking," Ana said.
Estella laughed — a small, breathless sound. "I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of wanting this. Of how much I want it." Estella's fingers curled, catching Ana's hand, holding it. "I told them I could open the door. I didn't tell them I was already standing on the other side, waiting for someone to let me in."
Ana's chest ached. The heat between her legs had softened into something quieter, deeper — a warmth that spread through her whole body, that made her want to lean forward, to press her forehead against Estella's, to breathe the same air until neither of them could tell where one ended and the other began.
"I'm Luna's little sister," Ana said. "I'm eight years younger than John. I showed up here with secrets I can't tell you and a past I'm running from. If you open that door, you don't know what walks through."
Estella's hand tightened on hers. "I know what I see through the door I've already opened." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I see a woman who listened to me fuck my husbands through a thin wall and didn't run. I see a woman who's still here. I see a woman whose hand was in her pants when I knocked, and who didn't try to hide it."
Ana's face flushed hot. She opened her mouth to explain, to deflect, to say something that would break the intensity — but Estella's thumb was tracing circles on her knuckles, and Ana's words dissolved before they reached her tongue.
"I'm not asking for anything tonight," Estella said. "I told them that. Not tonight. I meant it." She lifted Ana's hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles — soft, warm, her lips lingering. "But I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know that when I do open that door, it won't be because John wants you. It won't be because Gloria's curious. It'll be because I chose it."
She let go of Ana's hand. Stood. The bed creaked as her weight left it, and the air between them cooled, and Ana felt the absence like a physical wound.
Estella paused at the door. Looked back over her shoulder, her dark curls falling across her face, her robe slipping just enough to show the curve of her collarbone, the shadow between her breasts.
"Get some sleep, Ana." Her voice was soft. Warm. Full of promise. "Tomorrow, we'll figure out what you're running from. And then we'll figure out the rest."
The door clicked shut behind her. The lamplight vanished. Ana lay in the dark, her hand still warm where Estella had kissed it, her heart pounding, her thighs pressed together again — but this time, the ache was different. This time, it had a name.
She pressed her fingers to her lips. Tasted Estella's skin — salt and soap and something sweet. Then she rolled onto her side, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and stared at the thin wall that separated her from the room where Estella was climbing back into bed with John and Gloria, where the three of them were settling into the dark, where the door was still open, waiting.
Ana closed her eyes. Listened to the rain. Let herself want it.