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Chapter 12 - Shadows on Both Sides of the Glass

The air had weight to it that evening.

It wasn't humid, not exactly, but everything felt thick—like the breath between two mouths just before they meet. Claire sat at the kitchen table with a half-empty wine glass in front of her, her legs crossed tightly under the table, and her eyes fixed on the sliding glass door that led to the backyard.

Nina was out there. Pacing.

Barefoot, hair messy, wearing a threadbare tank top and drawstring pajama bottoms. She didn't know Claire was watching—at least, Claire didn't think so. Nina's shoulders rolled as she stretched, lithe and impulsive, like she was chasing a storm only she could hear.

The girl moved like heat itself.

Claire stood before she made the decision to. Her body led. Her thoughts dragged behind like children refusing to leave the park.

She opened the door.

Nina turned, her chest rising as if startled, though the corner of her mouth gave her away. She knew.

"Couldn't sleep?" Claire asked, the glass door sliding shut behind her.

Nina shrugged. "Couldn't think. That's worse."

They stood there for a moment, two silhouettes under the low backyard light, the kind that hums quietly but never flickers.

"I wanted to ask you something," Nina said, voice unusually calm. "That night you touched my hand… after the lake… was it real?"

Claire swallowed. "It scared me."

"That's not what I asked."

"It was real."

Nina stepped forward. Her bare feet padded softly on the patio stones. "Then why did you stop?"

"Because," Claire said, voice cracking a little, "you're younger. Wilder. I didn't want to be another middle-aged woman pretending to be brave while dragging you into something that—"

Nina silenced her with a single step closer. Now she was close enough to smell—bergamot soap, cigarettes, and something distinctly hers.

"You didn't drag me," Nina whispered. "I've been pulling for days."

Claire's breath trembled. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to kiss you," Nina said. "Unless you ask me not to."

Claire didn't speak.

She didn't move.

And Nina kissed her.

Not like a seduction—like a decision.

Claire's body betrayed her entirely: her knees softened, her fingers lifted, her mouth parted. The kiss was slow, purposeful, and dangerously gentle, the kind of kiss that made everything else feel too loud.

Nina's hands settled on Claire's hips. She didn't grope—she anchored her. Claire felt her back arch slightly, responding to the suggestion of contact more than the contact itself.

Claire gasped against her lips, "God—"

Nina grinned, her mouth brushing Claire's cheek as she whispered, "Say that again."

Claire let her head fall against Nina's shoulder. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Fingers slid beneath Claire's loose T-shirt. Warm palms. No rush. Just touch.

Claire shivered.

"Do you like the way I touch you?" Nina asked. "Or is it wrong? Or both?"

Claire's voice, finally—"It's not wrong. It's dangerous. But it's not wrong."

Their kiss deepened then, bodies pressing in just enough, just barely—the friction of skin through fabric, the tension of years unraveling in silence. Claire's breath broke into staggered whimpers, "Nina… I haven't…"

"I know," Nina whispered. "Let me."

And Claire did.

But not fully.

Not yet.

Across the street, light bled from Gloria Whitmore's study.And inside, her son was already drowning.

Daniel had no explanation for why he returned to the camera tonight. He told himself he wasn't going to. That he'd stop. That it was curiosity, not obsession.

But now the screen showed what he could never unsee.

His mother.

Claire.

Nina.

Kissing.

Breathing.Whimpering.Touching.

Daniel's hand hovered near the screen, fingers curling as if the image were tangible.

And then—

Click.

The lamp turned on behind him.

He turned sharply. Gloria stood in the doorway. Hair pinned. Silk robe closed but not fastened. Holding a glass of water as if it were a weapon.

She said nothing.

"Mom—" Daniel began.

"You recorded them." Her voice was cold. Smooth. Deadly.

"I didn't mean to. It was just—" he stammered.

"Don't insult me with cowardice," she cut him off, stepping in. "What exactly did you want to see, Daniel? Claire? The woman you stared at like a boy who's never touched anyone? Or Nina, the girl half your age with fire in her throat?"

Daniel tried to close the laptop, but Gloria didn't let him. Her hand snapped forward, fingers catching the screen and pressing it open again.

She leaned down until her face was inches from his. "You think you're the only one watching?"

Daniel's mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Gloria reached for the mouse and paused the video—on a still frame of Nina's fingers sliding under Claire's shirt, Claire's mouth open, eyes shut.

"I taught you better than this," Gloria said. "If you're going to watch women fall apart, at least understand what's breaking them."

Daniel blinked at her. "Why aren't you mad?"

Gloria smiled. Slow. Strange.

"Who says I'm not?"

She stood up, turned, and walked to the door. She paused there, back still to him.

"Keep watching, Daniel. But remember… you're not invisible."

She left.

The door clicked behind her.

And Daniel sat there, shaken—confused—aroused—and terrified all at once.

Because for the first time, he realized…

He wasn't watching women fall.He was watching them rise.

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