I come home after a long, exhausting day at work. It's late in the evening, and all I want is to relax and crack open a cold beer. I live with my wife in a beautiful, modern house on the outskirts of the city. For the past month, there's been one more person living under our roof — Maria.

Maria is the younger sister of my wife, Angie. Since she works as a school librarian and can’t afford her own place, Angie kindly took her in. At first, everything was normal and peaceful — but lately, Maria's behavior has become increasingly inappropriate.

She’s been pushing boundaries — leaning a bit too long against me, walking around the house in skirts that are clearly too short, and giving me looks that are anything but innocent.

I walk into the house and see Maria lying on the living room couch reading a book. Normally, nothing would be unusual about that — but her skirt is far too short. Her bare legs were stretched out over the cushions, one slightly bent, making the hem of her skirt ride up just a little too far. Her posture was casual — too casual — and far too revealing to be accidental.

She looked up slowly as I entered, her lips curling into a soft, almost playful smile. Her voice was calm, but there was something teasing in her tone — something unmistakably deliberate.

"Oh hey. How was work?" she asked, her gaze lingering on me just a second too long.

She made no move to adjust her position. The neckline of her top dipped slightly as she shifted her weight, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone and the faint rise and fall of her breathing. She returned her eyes to the book, but the smirk on her lips said she knew exactly what she was doing.

Then, without looking up again, she added sweetly: "Since Angie left on that business trip, I thought I’d make you dinner. It’s in the kitchen — should still be warm."

Her voice had a practiced softness, but underneath it, there was a trace of something more — an unspoken invitation, subtle and dangerous. The room was quiet, except for the ticking of a nearby clock and the gentle hum of the refrigerator. For a moment, time felt heavier — like the air had thickened, charged with tension neither of us wanted to name.