“I made coffee,” Silas tells her as she kisses him softly.
“I like him,” she tells me.
“I know,” I say. “It is deeply rude that I have competition.”
She rolls her eyes.
I watch her walk out of the room barefoot and have to physically drag my gaze back to something that is not the backs of her legs. She returns moments later with slippers on her feet.
“Good look on you,” Silas says.
“Which one?” she asks. “The sweats or the post shower hair.”
“Both,” he says, and he’s right.
I take the mug he hands me and lean against the counter near her, shoulder almost brushing hers. For a moment it feels unnervingly normal—morning, coffee, casual silence, if you ignore the whole step-family, sex club, nephew-disaster part.
We drink quietly. The coffee is strong and dark and starts putting my brain back in order.
I see the moment her mind starts to wander down the same road as last night.
Her fingers tighten around the mug as she stares into it like she’s reading something at the bottom.
“We need to talk about him,” she says.
She doesn’t say his name. She doesn’t have to. The air shifts.
“We do,” I answer.
Silas nods once. “We know he tried to blackmail you. We also know you would’ve set the place on fire if anything happened you didn’t choose.”
He’s right. She’s not timid. She doesn’t fold. If something had gone wrong, we wouldn’t be piecing it together backward; we would’ve heard the explosion in real time.
Her shoulders hunch a little. “I let him,” she says, the words heavy. “In the closet. I told him how to touch me. I was mad and turned on and overwhelmed, and I wanted to feel something that wasn’t that. He was there, and he wanted me, and it felt like taking back control. So I did.”
I nod slowly. “There’s nothing wrong with you choosing that. Not with wanting it. Not with using him for it.”
Her mouth twists. “He’s still my student in my TA class and my stepbrother.”
“He was your student before last night.” Silas’ voice is even. “You knew that when you told him no. You knew that when you decided to cross that line. That choice is on you, and you’re already carrying it. We’re not here to pile shame on top.”
She looks up at him like she almost can't believe he’s not angry with her.
“You should be mad,” she says.
“Oh, I’m mad,” Silas replies. “Just not at you.”
“At him,” she says quietly.
“At him,” I confirm. “For taking advantage of what he knows about you. For using your secrets as leverage. For pushing when you already said no.”
“He did back off a little after I went on that study date…session with him,” she says. “He stopped talking when I said no more words, just fingers.” She grimaces. “God, that sounds worse out loud.”
Silas’ eyes soften in that way he gets when he is being extremely rational and extremely kind at the same time. “It sounds like consent layered over terrible timing. Messy and human, not criminal.”
“Either way,” I say, “he’s not our focus right now. You are. We’ll handle him separately. You’re not going to be alone in that, and you’re not going to have to pretend everything is fine if he keeps pushing.”
Suspicion creases her brow. “What doeshandlemean?”
