Guest Room
"After her divorce, his wife's sister moves into their guest room temporarily. His wife works long hours; her sister is home all day. Shared breakfasts become shared confessions become something they both know is wrong."
Hannah moves in on a rainy Saturday.
She stands in our doorway, boxes piled behind her, mascara streaked down her cheeks. The divorce was finalized three days ago. She has nowhere else to go.
"Just for a few months," she says. "Until I find my feet."
"Stay as long as you need." My wife—her sister—pulls her into a hug. "Family takes care of family."
I grab the first box and try not to notice the way Hannah's eyes find mine over Emily's shoulder. Grateful, wounded, something else I can't name.
"Thank you, Daniel," she says.
"Of course."
It's the first of many lies.
Hannah is nothing like her sister.
Emily is practical. Focused. She works seventy-hour weeks as a corporate lawyer, leaving the house before dawn and returning after dark. She's slim, sharp-featured, always moving toward the next goal.
Hannah is soft.
Not just physically—though she is that too, five-four and easily two hundred pounds, curves spilling in every direction. But soft in other ways. She laughs easily. Cries easily. Feels everything at full volume.
The divorce shattered her. Her husband of eight years left her for his secretary—a cliche so cruel it would be funny if she weren't living it. She gave him everything, and he threw it away.
Now she's in our guest room, trying to remember who she is without him.
Week One
Emily leaves for work at six.
I work from home—software development, flexible hours—which means I'm here when Hannah shuffles into the kitchen at nine. She's wearing an old t-shirt and pajama shorts, her hair a mess, her eyes puffy.
"Coffee?" I offer.
"Please."
I pour her a cup. She wraps both hands around it like it's the only warm thing in the world.
"Emily told me to make myself at home," she says. "But I feel like I'm intruding."
"You're not."
"You're sweet." She almost smiles. "You've always been sweet. Emily got lucky."
"We both got lucky."
She looks away. Drinks her coffee. Something flickers across her face that I can't read.
"Is there anything you need?" I ask. "For the room, I mean. Extra blankets, towels—"
"I'm fine." She sets down her cup. "Really. I just need... time."
"Take all the time you need."
She meets my eyes. Holds the gaze a beat too long.
"Thank you, Daniel."
Week Two
We fall into a routine.
Mornings, I make breakfast while Hannah haunts the kitchen. We eat together—eggs, toast, fruit—and talk about nothing. The weather. The news. Safe topics that keep us from talking about anything real.
But real creeps in anyway.
"Did you ever wonder?" she asks one morning. "About your choices? Whether you picked the right person?"
"Everyone wonders."
"But you're happy. With Emily."
"I am."
She nods. Picks at her toast. "I thought I was happy too. Right up until the end. Isn't that strange? I didn't see it coming at all."
"Sometimes we don't."
"He said I was too much." Her voice cracks. "Too emotional. Too needy. Too... big." She gestures at her body. "He said he needed someone who took care of herself. Like I'm not a person, just a problem to be solved."
"He's an asshole."
She laughs—startled, genuine. "Yeah. He is."
"You're not too much of anything, Hannah. You're exactly enough."
She looks at me. For a moment, I think she might cry. Instead, she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
"Thank you."
"Anytime."
Her hand stays on mine for a moment too long.
Week Three
Emily works late. Again.
Hannah and I eat dinner together—takeout Thai, her favorite—and she opens up more than before. About her marriage, her dreams, the life she thought she'd have and the one she ended up with.
"I wanted kids," she says. "He kept saying 'not yet.' And then 'not yet' became 'never,' and then he was gone."
"You still could."
"I'm thirty-eight. And look at me." She waves at herself. "Who's going to want this?"
"Any man with eyes."
The words come out before I can stop them. She stares at me. I feel heat climb my neck.
"I mean—you're beautiful. You know that. Anyone who can't see it is blind."
"That's what you said before. That I'm 'enough.'" She tilts her head. "Do you really believe that?"
"Yes."
"Even the way I look?"
"Especially the way you look."
The silence stretches. Something shifts between us—a line approaching that neither of us should cross.
"Emily doesn't know how lucky she is," Hannah says quietly.
"Hannah—"
"I know. I shouldn't say that. She's my sister." She looks down at her plate. "But sometimes I wonder what it would be like. To have someone look at me the way you just did."
I don't know what to say. So I say nothing.
We clean up in silence. When she goes to bed, she squeezes my shoulder as she passes.
I don't sleep that night.
Week Four
It happens on a Thursday.
Emily is in Boston—a three-day deposition. I'm alone with Hannah, which has happened before but feels different now. The air between us is thick with everything we haven't said.
We're on the couch. A movie we're not watching. A bottle of wine that's more empty than full.
"Can I tell you something?" Hannah asks.
"Of course."
"I've been thinking about what you said. About me being beautiful." She sets down her glass. "No one's said that to me in years. David stopped looking at me like that a long time ago."
"He was a fool."
"Maybe." She shifts closer. "But it made me feel... invisible. Like I didn't exist as a woman anymore. Just as a burden."
"You're not a burden."
"Then why—" She stops. Shakes her head. "Never mind."
"Why what?"
"Why do I feel like this?" She turns to face me. Her eyes are wet. "Why do I feel like I only exist when you're looking at me?"
"Hannah..."
"I know it's wrong. You're married to my sister. I should pack my bags and leave before—"
"Before what?"
"Before I do something I can't take back."
The air crackles between us. She's so close I can smell her perfume—vanilla, something floral. Her chest rises and falls with each shaky breath.
"What do you want to do?" I ask.
"I want—" She closes her eyes. "God help me, I want you to touch me."
I should stand up. Walk away. Be the husband Emily deserves.
I touch her.
My hand finds her cheek.
She leans into it like she's starving for contact. A tear slips down her face, and I brush it away with my thumb.
"We can't," I whisper.
"I know."
"Emily—"
"I know."
"This is wrong."
"I know." Her voice breaks. "Do you think I don't know? She's my sister. I love her. But I'm so lonely, Daniel. I'm so fucking lonely, and you're the only person who's made me feel alive in years."
I should pull away.
I kiss her instead.
She tastes like wine and heartbreak.
Her mouth is soft, desperate, years of loneliness pouring into every moment. She clings to me like I'm the only solid thing in her world—maybe I am. Her hands fist in my shirt. Her body presses against mine.
"Please," she whispers against my lips. "Please. I need—"
"I know what you need."
I lower her onto the couch. She's trembling—nerves, want, the weight of what we're doing. I cover her body with mine, and she gasps at the contact.
"You're beautiful," I tell her. "Every inch of you."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm not lying." I kiss her throat. "I've thought about this. More than I should. Every morning when you walk into the kitchen. Every time you laugh at my terrible jokes. Every time you look at me with those eyes."
"Daniel—"
"Let me show you."
I undress her slowly. The t-shirt, the bra beneath it—her breasts are heavy, full, nipples hard in the cool air. Her belly is soft, rounded, marked with stretch marks that she tries to hide.
"Don't," I say when she covers herself. "Let me see you."
She does. Bares herself completely—body and soul—and I worship every inch.
I kiss her breasts. Take each nipple in my mouth, suck until she moans. I kiss down her belly—soft and warm—and she whimpers when I reach the waistband of her shorts.
"You don't have to—" she starts again.
"I want to."
I pull down her shorts, her panties. She's wet—I can smell her, sweet and musky. Her thighs are thick, dimpled, and they fall open when I settle between them.
"Oh god," she breathes as I lower my mouth to her.
She tastes like heaven.
I eat her slowly. Gently. Years of neglect to undo, years of feeling invisible to erase. I find what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her grab my hair and beg for more.
"Daniel—fuck—I'm going to—"
"Come for me."
She does. Floods my mouth, shakes apart beneath me, cries out my name like a prayer. I work her through it, gentler now, easing her down.
When I look up, she's crying.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She laughs through her tears. "Nothing's wrong. That's the problem. I forgot what it feels like. To be wanted."
"You're wanted." I crawl up her body. "You're wanted, Hannah. You always have been."
She pulls me down. Kisses me deep. Tastes herself on my lips.
"Then show me," she whispers. "Please. I need to feel you."
I slide inside her.
She's tight—tighter than I expected—and hot, and wet, and she moans as I fill her completely. Her soft body cushions mine. Her arms wrap around my back. Her legs open wider, pulling me deeper.
"Yes," she breathes. "God, yes. I needed this. I needed—"
I move. Slow at first, savoring the feel of her. She's so different from Emily—bigger, softer, more responsive. Every thrust pulls a sound from her throat. Every touch makes her tremble.
"Harder," she begs. "I want to feel it tomorrow. I want to remember—"
I give her harder. The couch creaks. Her breasts bounce with each thrust. She's so wet I can hear it—the obscene sound of our bodies joining, of crossing a line neither of us can uncross.
"I'm close—" she gasps. "Gonna come again—"
"Come for me. Come on your sister's husband's cock."
The words should sound wrong. They don't.
She shatters. Screams into my shoulder, clenches around me, shakes with an orgasm that goes on and on. I can't hold back—her body milks me, and I spill into her with a groan.
We collapse together. Tangled. Breathing hard.
"We can't do this again," she whispers finally.
"I know."
"Emily—"
"I know."
"But—" She looks at me. Something raw in her eyes. "But you made me feel alive. For the first time in years."
I kiss her forehead. Her nose. Her lips.
"You are alive. You always were. You just needed someone to remind you."
We do it again.
And again. And again. Whenever Emily is gone—which is often—Hannah comes to me. We fuck in the guest room, the living room, the shower. We talk about everything and nothing. We pretend we're not destroying something sacred.
"I hate myself for this," she says one night.
"So do I."
"But I can't stop."
"Neither can I."
She curls against me. Her soft body fits perfectly against mine.
"What happens when she finds out?"
"I don't know."
"Do you regret it?"
I think about Emily. About our life together. About the vows I'm breaking every time I touch her sister.
Then I look at Hannah. At the woman who was invisible until I saw her. At the light in her eyes that wasn't there when she moved in.
"No," I say. "I don't."
She kisses me. We start again.
Some things are too broken to fix.
Some things break us open instead.