Page 13 of Muse (The Forbidden Hearts #1)

SOPHIE

T he drive home is quiet, but comfortably so. Being in his presence is calming, a steady undercurrent of peace wrapping around me like a weighted blanket. I could sit beside him for hours, saying nothing, just existing. He's like the escape I find in smoking weed, only better.

But the urge to reach over and touch him? It's strong. And the way his fingers twitch every so often on the steering wheel makes me think he feels it too. I keep telling myself I'm probably just imagining things, but it can't be just me that feels the chemistry between us.

It's in the air, electric and thick, every breath filled with it. The very molecules of our cells seem to reach for each other, drawn by something primal, something inevitable.

He knows the area well, somehow. When I gave him my address, he didn’t hesitate or ask for directions. He just drove. I haven't spoken since.

As we enter my neighborhood, he slows before the turn to my street, pulling off to the side and shifting the gear into park. A quiet tension lingers in the air between us.

“I, uh… I think it's best I don't take you to the front door.” Hi s voice is rough and low. His eyes flick to mine, guarded, searching. Questions swirl between us, unspoken but understood. Neither of us will mention this to anyone, just like the bar. Another secret shared between us.

“Yeah, that’s probably smart. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.” I smirk, trying to lighten the mood, to cool the burn of whatever this is. But the tension lingers, simmering, the kind that makes my skin prickle and my pulse race. Something has shifted between us, as minute as it may be.

God, if only he wasn't my teacher. Everything about him, his presence, his restraint, his quiet strength, it’s just, ugh . I can’t explain it. Can’t even begin to make sense of what I’m feeling.

He clears his throat, his jaw tightening, a pained look taking over his features. “Sophie…” he starts, like he wants to continue, but knows he shouldn't. But he doesn’t say need to say it, I already know.

So I nod, swallow hard, and climb out of his car with a quick wave goodbye.

I feel his eyes on me as I walk home, the weight of his gaze pressing into my back, but I don’t turn around. It can’t mean more and I don’t want to look desperate.

Neither of my parents are home, likely out to brunch with friends, as they often are on Sunday mornings. My sister is still asleep, her door shut tight. The house is silent and empty.

The perfect time to get lost in my thoughts.

I strip out of my party dress, the fabric pooling at my feet like a discarded memory.

Stepping into the shower, I crank the water as hot as I can stand, letting the scalding spray pummel my tired muscles, washing away the remnants of last night.

The tension in my shoulders, the ache in my lower back from sleeping on his couch, the ghost of his touch…

it all swirls down the drain, but something in me refuses to let go.

My eyes flutter shut as steam curls around me, thick and hazy, cocooning me in warmth. And then, as if my mind has a will of its own, I picture him.

Theo.

Not as my teacher. As the man I met at the bar.

I see his hands, large and warm, dragging over my damp skin, his calloused fingers tracing slow, lazy circles over my hips. A tease and a promise. My breath catches as I imagine him stepping in behind me, pressing his body against mine, the hard lines of him unyielding and demanding.

The rough scrape of his beard ghosts along my neck, trailing lower, down to my collarbone. His lips barely brushing my skin, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers my name.

The thought alone has my pulse hammering, a deep, aching need unfurling low in my stomach. My fingers move on instinct, slipping between my thighs, chasing the fantasy, desperate to make it feel real.

I picture his hands instead of mine.

His touch. Slow, agonizing, and deliberate. Holding me in place, making me take it, making me feel every inch of him.

My teeth sink into my lip, trying to stifle the moan threatening to spill from my throat, but it escapes anyway, a quiet, breathless plea.

“Theo…”

The name shatters in the steam-filled air, swallowed by the rush of water, but it doesn’t matter.

The pleasure hits fast and hard, stealing the breath from my lungs, making my legs tremble as the fantasy crashes over me in waves.

I grip the slick shower wall, anchoring myself as I come undone, my body bowing under the force of it.

I’m panting, my heartbeat erratic, my skin too hot even as the water starts to turn cold.

But I don’t open my eyes. Not yet. Because for a few blissful seconds, I can still feel him.

Still hear him murmuring my name. Still imagine the weight of him pressing me into the tile, taking me apart piece by piece .

But it’s not real.

It never will be.

The knowledge settles heavily in my chest as I force myself to shut off the water. The rush of silence is deafening. I wrap a towel around myself, my skin pebbling from the temperature shift, and pad back to my room.

I barely make it to my bed before I collapse, my body spent, my mind still lost in him. My last conscious thought before exhaustion pulls me under is of Theo.

A loud bang rips me from unconsciousness, my bedroom door slamming against the wall. My heart jolts, a panicked gasp catching in my throat as I scramble upright.

My father stands in the doorway, his scowl sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze of pleasure still clinging to me.

“Get up.” His voice is hard, edged with impatience. “You have chores. Why the hell are you still in bed? It’s past noon.”

My stomach knots with familiar dread, my body’s usual reaction to dealing with my parents' anger.

Does he know?

How could he?

Shame burns hot under my skin. A stupid, irrational response. I did nothing wrong, nothing he could possibly know about, and yet the feeling of guilt lingers, coiling tight in my chest.

“I was just taking a nap,” I say, my voice scratchy. “I didn’t sleep great at Sal’s last night.”

I push myself up, feigning nonchalance, ignoring the way my hands shake. I reach for the comforter but hesitate… realizing almost too late that I’m still undressed beneath it.

His eyes narrow, sweeping over me with a sharp, assessing look that always makes me feel small. But he doesn’t push or question why I flinch under his scrutiny .

“Hurry up,” he snaps instead. “Your mom needs help downstairs.”

And just like that, he spins on his heel and storms off, leaving my door open in his wake, forever angry for no reason.

I exhale sharply, relief washing over me in dizzying waves.

He doesn’t know.

I let my head fall back against the pillow for a second, eyes squeezed shut, my pulse still hammering. The aftermath of too many emotions flooding through my body, too fast.

Then, with a deep breath, I shove off the covers and grab the nearest T-shirt and sweats. The fabric is soft and comforting, a small mercy against the gnawing tension in my chest. I tug them on quickly, grounding myself in the motions.

Downstairs, the house smells like my mother’s cooking. Garlic and herbs layered with the sharp tang of cleaning spray. She’s in full panic mode.

“Sophie, I need you to vacuum and mop.” She barely looks up from scrubbing the countertops, her movements frantic and her voice clipped. “The Robertsons, including Cole, are coming over tonight for dinner.”

I freeze.

The Robertsons.

My throat tightens, bile rising. “The Robertsons?”

She sighs, already exasperated, already annoyed at my reaction. “Now get over yourself. You and that boy can suck it up and be civil. His parents are our friends.”

That boy.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper.

My first boyfriend. My only boyfriend.

The one who broke me.

The one who pushed me, who didn’t take no for an answer. The one who never saw his actions as wrong, as damaging.

I was young. Na?ve. Raised to obey.

And so I did.

My parents don’t know everything. They know he cheated, that he left me gutted and hollow. But they don’t care enough to spare me from him.

Grinding my teeth, I grab the vacuum and flick it on, the hum drowning out the whirlwind of thoughts clawing at my brain. I focus on the rhythm, on the lines I carve into the carpet. Anything to keep me from slipping too deep into the memories.

Eventually, my sister, Bella, drifts in, stretching and rubbing sleep from her eyes. It doesn’t escape my notice that she wasn’t ripped from sleep like I was. That she was allowed to rest.

“Hey, sis,” I say, forcing a smile. “Wanna help?”

She snorts. “Yes, yes. Cleaning on a Sunday. My dream come true.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom’s in a mood.”

She groans. “Oh, great.”

But when she steps into the kitchen, I hear our mother laugh.

Laugh .

Bella always manages to make her laugh. It’s her superpower.

The realization stings more than it should.

I switch to mopping, dragging the bucket behind me as I scrub the floors to gleaming perfection. Nothing else will do, not for my perfectionist mother.

She flits around the main floor of the house, fluffing pillows and rearranging things that don’t need rearranging, desperate to maintain the illusion that we’re a perfect family in a perfect home, hosting perfect dinners.

A facade. A lie.

One I’m convinced she even believes, having deluded herself just like she convinces the world. Because if it isn’t broadcasted on social media, did it even happen ?

My mother is the queen of performance, of presenting a facade.

Ever the show-off… even when it’s all a lie.