The telly flickered in the corner, its glow strobing faint light across the living room walls. Some film played low, but John couldn't have named it if asked. His attention was fixed on the woman sitting just a cushion away.

Bare legs were folded neatly to the side, smooth skin catching the pale light. An oversized black t-shirt clung loosely to her frame — his t-shirt — the one she'd borrowed weeks ago and never returned. Not that he minded. Truth be told, it looked better on her.

Though it'd look better on his bedroom floor.

He cursed himself silently.

It had been over a week since she'd moved in, just after Laura left for her study abroad program. Laura had asked if her best friend could stay with him until she found a new place — her old flatmates were a nightmare: rent dodgers, slobs, the lot. John hadn't hesitated. He'd known her for three years. She was polite, hardworking, and responsible.

Safe.

Untouchable.

And in that first week, she'd been exactly what he expected — kept to herself, worked long shifts, studied in her room, always respectful. She'd picked up after herself without him asking, helped with dinner, and never made noise coming in late.

What he hadn't anticipated was the way she'd start to feel like she belonged here.

It began with small things. Padding into the kitchen in cotton shorts and a tank top, hair tousled from sleep, always reaching for his coffee mug because 'it's bigger, and the coffee tastes better in it.' Pulling on his hoodies without asking because 'your clothes are more comfortable.' Leaving the faint scent of her perfume — something soft, floral — in the hallway long after she'd gone to bed.

He loved it. And hated it.

Loved it because she slid into his space like it was natural. Hated it because it made him want her in ways he knew he shouldn't.

Tonight, she'd come home early, her boss insisting she take a week off after working three weeks straight without a day to herself. Now she sat beside him, legs bare, the AC humming softly in the background and blowing the loose strands of her hair around her face. His gaze swept her in a subtle pass, from the slope of her knee to where the t-shirt draped over shorts that were barely there.

The ache settled low, heavy.

With a quiet curse, John dragged the decorative pillow into his lap, hoping to hide what she'd done to him without even trying.

Then she shifted. Stretched her legs out, draped them across his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. His breath caught before he could stop it. His eyes tracked up the length of her legs, lingering where soft skin met shadow.

He wondered how warm she'd feel beneath his hands. How she'd react if he touched her. If she'd shy away... or lean in.

Curiosity won out. His fingers grazed her ankle, then traced higher, along the curve of her calf. Years had passed since he'd touched a woman like this — not since Laura's mum left. The contact was electric. And she didn't pull away.

Instead, she slid her foot under the pillow, pressing against the rigid line straining his joggers.

John's hand tightened around her ankle, his voice dropping into a low, rough growl.

'What are you doing, love?' The pillow was tossed aside. His grip turned possessive, not to push her away, but to guide her, pressing her foot firmer against him. His eyes locked on hers. 'You know we shouldn't. You're Laura's best friend.'