The glass cracks. The door opens. The body remembers.
Veronica King was a tidy woman.
Always polished. Always poised. The kind of woman who folded her dish towels symmetrically and color-coded her sock drawer. Her neighbors saw her as soft-spoken. A little distant. Polite.
But not many knew what happened behind her closed blinds.
Not even Ted, her husband of twenty-one years.
Certainly not her kids.
Because at exactly 9:27 p.m. every night for the last six nights, Veronica stood naked in her upstairs bathroom, lights off, window slightly open — and watched the Whitmore house.
She didn't see everything.
Just enough.
The silhouette of Claire's hands gripping the kitchen counter. Gloria's robe slipping open. The flicker of a shadow between a woman's thighs. The soft, guttural moans that bled through the warm suburban air like summer thunder.
And last night... she swore she saw Claire look back through the window. Directly at her.
Like she knew.
Veronica had fingered herself in the dark, biting a towel between her teeth, whispering Claire's name like it was holy.
But tonight, she wasn't just watching.
She dressed slowly.
Black slacks. Soft burgundy top. No bra.
She wore her hair loose — for once not in a bun. No perfume. Just lotion and a thin layer of nervous sweat beneath her arms.
Ted was in the garage, working on some "Dad Club" bullshit, probably messaging his fantasy football group. He wouldn't even notice.
She left a note. Gone for a walk. Need air.
Then she crossed the street.
The door opened before she knocked.
Gloria stood there barefoot, wrapped in a white kimono that parted slightly at her thighs.
"Well," she said softly, one eyebrow raised. "It's about time."
Veronica's throat dried. "How did you—"
"I saw you," Gloria said, stepping back. "Watching us. Every night."
Veronica flushed. "I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did," Gloria cut in gently. "You meant it every single time your fingers went between your legs."
Veronica blinked.
Gloria just smiled. "Come in."
Inside, the heat was different.
The house smelled like cardamom and old books. Claire sat on the couch in silk shorts and a loose white tank, her legs bare and freshly shaven. Nina leaned against the window frame, dark lipstick smudged, her tattoos gleaming.
Three women.
And now... four.
Veronica stood awkwardly in the doorway, her heart punching her ribs.
Claire rose.
"You don't have to pretend," Claire said softly. "We've all pretended long enough."
Veronica's voice cracked. "I don't know what I'm doing."
Nina walked up to her, close. Too close.
"That's the fun part."
Veronica's undoing began with a kiss.
Claire reached for her hand.
"Sit."
Veronica did.
Nina knelt at her feet. Her hands didn't touch her yet — just hovered, waiting.
"You're safe here," Gloria whispered, taking the seat beside her.
Veronica exhaled — and it all broke.
The nights she'd cried after sex with Ted, aching for something she couldn't name.
The years of swallowing her questions.
The quiet, strangled orgasms under blankets.
Gone.
Claire leaned in.
Their lips met — soft, searching, hungry.
Veronica gasped.
"Can I touch you?" Claire murmured.
Veronica nodded.
And then hands — warm, sure — slid up her thighs, cupped her breasts, stroked her stomach. Nina's mouth pressed to her inner knee. Gloria whispered filthy things in her ear like prayers rewritten in lust.
"You're beautiful when you tremble," she said, voice like velvet sin.
The first orgasm was breathless.
Claire's fingers inside her. Slow. Rhythmic.
Nina's tongue circling her nipple.
Gloria biting her shoulder as Veronica moaned like a woman dying and being reborn all at once.
"Oh… f-fuck—"
Her hips bucked.
Her vision blurred.
And still… they didn't stop.
"More," she gasped. "Please…"
And they gave it to her.
Because this wasn't about permission anymore.
This was belonging.
After the storm, the stillness.
Veronica lay tangled in Claire's arms, a sheen of sweat across her belly, lips swollen from kisses and moans.
"I don't want to go back," she whispered.
"You don't have to," Gloria said, lighting a cigarette.
Nina kissed her temple. "Let them have their fantasy leagues and midlife crisis motorcycles."
"You have us now."
Veronica closed her eyes.
For the first time in years... she believed it.