The Other Room | NEON LIT

The walls in our parents' house are thin.

I've known this since I was a teenager. Known that sounds carry. Known that privacy is an illusion.

I didn't know my sister knew it too.

Emma moved back home six months ago.

Divorce. Ugly one. She needed somewhere to land, and our parents were in Europe for the year. Empty house, free rent, time to heal.

I was already there. Between jobs. Between lives. Two adults in their late twenties, living like teenagers again.

It was supposed to be temporary.

The first time I heard her, I thought she was crying.

Soft sounds through the wall. Muffled. Late at night.

I almost knocked on her door. Almost asked if she was okay.

Then I realized she wasn't crying.

She was touching herself.

I could hear it. The rhythm. The breathing. The small sounds she made when she got close.

I should have put in headphones. Should have ignored it.

I didn't.

It became a pattern.

Every night, around midnight, the sounds would start. Soft. Rhythmic. Building.

I lay in my bed, three feet of drywall between us, and listened.

I told myself I wasn't really listening. That I was just a light sleeper. That it was her fault for being loud.

But I was listening. And I was hard every single time.

Emma has always been beautiful.

I'm not supposed to notice. But I've noticed since we were teenagers. Curves that developed early, that the boys in school couldn't stop staring at. Full breasts, wide hips, a softness to her body that her ex-husband apparently didn't appreciate.

His loss.

I notice now more than ever. In the kitchen, in the living room, passing each other in the hall. She wears loungewear that clings. Braless. Unselfconscious.

Or maybe not unselfconscious.

Maybe she knows exactly what she's doing.

Two weeks ago, something changed.

The sounds stopped being muffled. Like she'd gotten louder. Or like something between us had gotten thinner.

I heard my name.

"Ryan."

Soft. Breathy. Unmistakable.

She said my name while she touched herself.

I didn't sleep that night.

Or the next. Or the next.

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself I'd misheard. That it was some other name. That my sister wasn't moaning for me.

But I hadn't misheard.

And she wasn't stopping.

I started listening for it.

Every night. That moment when she'd say it. Sometimes early. Sometimes right at the end. Always my name. Always that same breathy, desperate sound.

"Ryan."

Like a prayer. Like a confession.

I jerked off to the sound of my sister saying my name. I'm not proud of it.

But I couldn't stop.

Last night, her door was open.

Not all the way. Just a crack. Enough that light from the hallway would filter in.

Enough that someone passing by might see.

I was going to the bathroom.

That's what I told myself. Just passing through. Didn't even notice her door.

But I stopped.

Through the crack, I could see her bed.

She was on top of the covers. Naked. Her hand between her thighs, moving.

She was looking at the door.

She was looking at me.

"Come in."

Her voice was steady. Not surprised. Like she'd been waiting.

"Emma—"

"Come in, Ryan. Or close the door and go back to your room."

I pushed the door open.

She didn't stop touching herself.

Just watched me with those dark eyes, her hand still moving, her body on display.

"I know you've been listening," she said.

"I—"

"Every night. I can hear you too, you know. Hear you moving in your bed. Hear you breathing."

"Emma, we can't—"

"I've been saying your name." Her breath hitched. "Did you hear that part?"

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

"...Yes."

"Then come here."

I crossed to the bed.

She reached for me with her free hand. Pulled me down. I was hard already — had been since I saw her through the door.

"I've wanted this for months," she whispered. "Since I moved back. Maybe longer."

"We're brother and sister."

"I know." She guided my hand to replace hers. "I don't care anymore."

She was wet. Soaked. Her body trembling under my touch.

"Please," she begged. "Please, Ryan."

I kissed her.

My sister. My blood. The girl I grew up with.

She tasted like wine and desperation.

"I've been thinking about this," she gasped between kisses. "Every night. Thinking about you in the next room."

"Me too."

"Why didn't you come sooner?"

"I didn't know if you wanted—"

"The open door wasn't clear enough?"

"I didn't want to assume."

She laughed. Pulled me on top of her.

"Assume. Please assume."

She was soft everywhere.

All the curves I'd been watching for months, mine to touch. Her breasts in my hands, her belly against mine, her thighs wrapped around my hips.

"You feel so good," she breathed.

"So do you."

"I've wanted this for so long."

"How long?"

"Longer than I should admit." She reached down, found me, guided me to her entrance. "Since before my marriage. Since always, maybe."

"Emma—"

"Don't. Don't tell me it's wrong. I know it's wrong." She pulled me closer. "I don't care."

I pushed inside her.

The walls are thin.

Every sound carries. Every moan, every gasp, every whispered name.

But there's no one to hear us. Just us. In our parents' empty house. Doing what we've been pretending we didn't want to do.

"Harder," she begged. "Please, harder."

I gave her what she wanted. What we both wanted.

She came first.

Screaming into my shoulder, her whole body shaking, clenching around me like she'd never let go.

"Ryan, Ryan, Ryan—"

Hearing my name like that — not through a wall, but in my ear — pushed me over.

I came inside her. My sister. My blood.

I should have felt guilt. Horror.

I felt complete.

After, we lay tangled together.

"So," she said. "That happened."

"Yeah."

"Any regrets?"

I thought about it. Searched for the shame I knew should be there.

"No."

"Me neither." She traced patterns on my chest. "What does that make us?"

"I don't know. Fucked up?"

"Very." She kissed my shoulder. "Want to be fucked up again tomorrow?"

"And the night after that."

She smiled. Snuggled closer.

"The walls are thin," she murmured.

"I know."

"I don't want to be quiet anymore."

"Then don't."

That was last night.

Tonight, we're not in separate rooms.

Her bed. Our bodies. The sounds we make together filling the house.

No one to hear. No one to judge. Just us.

Eventually, we'll have to face reality.

Our parents will come home. We'll have to move out. Build separate lives. Pretend we're just brother and sister.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she's in my arms. Warm and soft and willing.

"I love you," she whispers.

"I love you too."

Not the way siblings are supposed to love.

Something more.

Something forbidden.

Something ours.

In the other room, my bed sits empty.

I don't think I'll be using it again.