The school day dragged on like a slow, cruel punishment.
Leo sat through his classes, but he heard nothing.
The teachers’ voices were distant murmurs.
The words on the whiteboard were meaningless shapes.
His mind was elsewhere.
It was stuck on that morning.
On the warm, soft feeling of his mother’s body.
On the secret he now carried like a stone in his chest.
When the final bell finally rang, he was the first one out of the classroom.
He walked fast, his backpack bouncing against his shoulders.
He did not wait for Maya.
He did not look back.
The walk home felt shorter than usual.
His feet moved on their own, carrying him through the familiar streets.
The afternoon sun was warm, but he felt cold inside.
He reached the house.
It looked quiet.
Peaceful.
The curtains were drawn.
The front door was locked.
He took out his key and opened it.
“Mom?” he called, his voice echoing in the empty hallway.
Silence.
He closed the door behind him and locked it.
He walked through the living room, the kitchen, the hallway.
The house was empty.
She was at work.
Of course.
Saturdays were her long shifts at the clinic.
She wouldn’t be home until late evening.
Leo stood in the middle of the living room.
The quiet pressed in on him from all sides.
He was alone.
He went to his room and closed the door.
He took off his school clothes and threw them on the chair.
He stood in front of his closet, naked from the waist up, and pulled on a loose t-shirt and sweatpants.
But he did not sit down.
He did not turn on the TV.
He did not pick up his phone.
His eyes drifted to the door.
To the hallway.
To the room at the end of the hall.
Her room.
His heart began to beat faster.
The hunger was back.
It had never really gone away.
It had only been hiding, waiting for the right moment.
He walked to her bedroom door.
It was closed.
He turned the handle slowly.
It opened.
The room smelled like her.
The soft, clean scent of her perfume and laundry detergent.
The bed was made.
The pillows were fluffed.
Everything was neat and tidy.
He stepped inside.
His eyes moved around the room.
The dresser.
The closet.
The small laundry basket in the corner.
He walked to the laundry basket.
There, on top, was a pair of her panties.
Light blue.
Simple cotton.
The same ones from last night.
He picked them up.
The fabric was soft in his hands.
He brought them to his face and breathed in.
The smell was faint, but it was her.
A mix of her body and the detergent she used.
His body reacted immediately.
His breath quickened.
His groin grew tight.
He sat down on the edge of her bed.
The bed where she had slept.
The bed where he had…
done it.
He held the panties in his hands, staring at them.
The small, delicate piece of fabric.
Something so innocent.
Something so intimate.
He closed his eyes.
He imagined her wearing them.
He imagined her walking around the house in them.
He imagined her sleeping in them, her body warm and soft.
He could not hold back anymore.
He lay back on her bed, the panties clutched in his hand.
He pulled down his sweatpants, freeing himself.
He was already hard, aching with need.
He brought the panties to his face again, breathing in her scent.
His hand moved down to his shaft.
He gripped himself and began to stroke.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
He imagined her face.
Her tired, lonely face in the blue TV light.
Her peaceful sleeping face this morning.
The way her mouth was open.
The way she moaned softly when he entered her.
He imagined she was here with him now.
That she wanted this.
That she needed him as much as he needed her.
*We are only two in this house.
We only have each other.*
The thought pushed him over the edge.
His body tensed.
A low groan escaped his lips as he climaxed, spilling onto his hand, onto her panties, onto her bedsheet.
He lay there, breathing hard, the panties still pressed to his face.
When it was over, the guilt came rushing back.
It was always the same.
The pleasure, then the shame.
He sat up.
He looked at the mess he had made.
Her panties were stained.
Her bed was stained.
He felt a moment of panic.
He had to clean up.
He had to hide it.
He hurried to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and wet it.
He came back and scrubbed at the sheet until the stain was barely visible.
He took the panties and rinsed them in the bathroom sink, squeezing out the water.
He hung them in his own closet, hidden behind his jackets.
He would return them later.
Or maybe not.
Maybe he would keep them.
He threw the wet towel into the laundry.
Then he stood in her room, looking around.
Everything looked normal again.
Clean.
Tidy.
But he knew the truth.
The secret was still there.
It was in the air.
In the sheets.
In the panties hidden in his closet.
And it was in him.
He walked out of her room and closed the door behind him.
The house was still quiet.
The afternoon sun was still warm.
But nothing felt the same.
He went to his room, lay down on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.
She would be home in a few hours.
She would smile at him.
She would ask about his day.
And he would have to look into her eyes, knowing what he had done.
Knowing what he wanted to do again.