Quiet Confessions

In the last installment of The Ides of March…

Breakfast in Briefs

The smell of coffee hit first.

The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne

We moved fast.

Not a word between us, just a shared jolt of adrenaline that ripped us off the couch and sent us diving in opposite directions.

Drew yanked his shirt over his head backwards, nearly tripping as he hopped into his jeans one leg at a time. I grabbed my sweats from where they were tangled in a heap on the floor, tugged them on without underwear, heart pounding in my ears.

The sound of her car door slamming echoed through the house like a countdown.

Ten seconds.

Drew wiped at his neck with the hem of his shirt, trying to erase sweat or guilt or whatever was still clinging to his skin. I swiped at the coffee table—mugs, plates, remote—anything that looked too lived in. Too us.

Nine seconds.

“Pants,” I muttered.

“What?”

“You forgot pants.”

He looked down, panicked—saw that he had, in fact, managed that part—then shot me a glare.

Eight seconds.

I opened a window, quick blast of icy air hitting my face like punishment.

Seven.

The front door creaked. The lock rattled.

Six.

I dropped onto the couch, pretending I’d been scrolling through the TV menu for the past hour like a normal person who hadn’t just come all over his sister’s boyfriend in the living room.

Five.

Drew sat on the other end, arms crossed, posture way too casual.

Four.

He looked over at me—wide-eyed, flushed, wrecked.

Three.

We didn’t say a thing.

Two.

The door swung open.

One.

“Hey!” Leah called out, boots stomping snow from the entryway. “Anyone alive in this igloo?”

I swallowed.

Drew stood.

I didn’t breathe.

“Welcome back,” he said.

Voice steady.

Like nothing happened.

She came in with a gust of cold and a cascade of noise—boots thunking on the tile, jacket unzipped halfway, bags rustling against the doorframe as she shouldered them inside like she’d just survived the Oregon Trail.

“Jesus, it’s a tundra out there,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her. “No one salted the driveway. I nearly slid into the mailbox.”

Drew was already halfway to meet her, reaching to take one of the heavier bags.

“I told you to text when you got close,” he said.

“I did text,” she huffed, pulling off her gloves. “You just didn’t answer.”

He glanced at me, quick. I stared straight ahead at the TV like it held the secret to life.

“Levi,” she said, zeroing in. “Please tell me you didn’t eat the last of the bacon.”

“Nope,” I said. “Left you two strips. Fridge.”

“Wow. Brother of the year.”

She peeled off her coat and tossed it onto the nearest chair, then crossed the room and dropped onto the couch between us with a dramatic sigh.

“I hate flying,” she muttered. “And I hate driving more. And I especially hate both on zero sleep and frozen roads.”

Drew handed her the coffee mug he’d been nursing—now lukewarm and a little too full of shared breath and secrets. She took it without hesitation, sipped, and made a face.

“This is gross.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

She leaned into him like it was instinct. Head on his shoulder, her fingers curling absently into the fabric of his shirt. I felt it land in my gut.

Not because she touched him.

Because he let her.

Because I’d touched him there last night.

And he let me, too.

“So,” she said, eyes closed. “You two survive without me?”

I kept my voice even. “Barely.”

Drew didn’t say a word.

But when she wasn’t looking, he glanced across her shoulder—at me.

And I knew we were both thinking the same thing.

Survived?

Barely.

But not in the way she meant.

LATER AT DINNER

Dinner smelled like rosemary and redemption.

Mom was in full hostess mode, swaying between stove and serving platters like she’d trained for this exact moment. Dad was crouched in front of the fireplace in the dining room, coaxing flames into a second round of life like it was personal.

“Flight cancellations, reroutes, de-icing delays—we saw it all,” Mom said, placing a bowl of roasted vegetables on the table like it had personally wronged her. “If not for Leah, we’d still be stuck in that god-awful hotel.”

Dad straightened up with a grunt, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “She handled it like a pro. Took charge, got the car, mapped the whole route on her phone—”

“She’s always been good in a crisis,” Mom added.

Leah grinned across the table, smug but modest. “Someone had to rescue you.”

I picked up my fork. “Twin of the Year goes to…”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please. You would’ve left them in Roanoke and played Elden Ring until spring.”

“I take offense to that,” I said. “I haven’t played Elden Ring in weeks.”

“Sure,” she muttered, then turned her full attention to Drew. “Anyway, this one had to put up with you while I was gone. You deserve a medal.”

Drew smiled—soft, sweet, the kind of smile I’d seen him give her a hundred times. “He wasn’t that bad,” he said.

“Oh please,” I said. “You were one podcast episode away from walking into the snow.”

He laughed politely. Leah kissed his cheek.

And then, under the table, his foot nudged mine.

Just a brush at first.

I froze.

Then he did it again—slow, deliberate, dragging the ball of his foot along the inside of my ankle.

My pulse jumped.

I looked across the table at him.

He didn’t look at me.

He was listening to Leah, nodding like he was deeply invested in her retelling of the thesis struggle.

“She’s been so stressed,” Mom said. “I keep telling her to take breaks, but no one listens to their mother.”

“He’s been helping,” Leah said, nudging Drew’s arm. “Actually proofread my whole draft last week.”

Under the table, his toes found my shin and trailed up my calf.

I nearly dropped my fork.

He smiled at Leah. “Happy to help.”

I took a sip of water I didn’t need and tried not to combust.

Because the fire in the fireplace was nothing compared to the one now crawling up my spine.

And the worst part?

He knew it.

Dessert was Mom’s apple crisp—golden, fragrant, the kind of thing that stuck to your ribs and reminded you that childhood could still be served warm.

Drew took a generous helping.

I took half a scoop and tried to pretend my whole leg wasn’t still tingling under the table.

Leah was mid-story about a thesis draft meltdown—something about a corrupted file, too many tabs open, and the ghost of Microsoft Word haunting her sleep—and Drew was doing an excellent job pretending to follow along.

But under the table?

His foot hadn’t moved.

It stayed pressed against mine—not aggressive, not playful.

Intentional.

Like he wanted me to feel it.

Like he wanted me to remember.

I shifted my foot slightly, testing him, sliding mine alongside his calf. He didn’t flinch. Just leaned back in his chair and smiled as Leah passed him the whipped cream.

We didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Every brush of skin said it for us.

And by the time we cleared our plates, my entire body felt like a fuse waiting for a spark.

The dishes were done. The fire had burned low again. The parents had retreated to their room. Leah was upstairs, humming through her shower like the heroine in a romcom who didn’t know what the second act had in store.

And I was on the back porch, barefoot on cold concrete, wearing an old hoodie and trying to breathe.

The air was sharp and quiet, the stars low and heavy, the trees swaying like they were in on something I hadn’t figured out yet.

The sliding door creaked behind me.

I didn’t turn around.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Drew asked, his voice low, softer now that the world was dim again.

“Didn’t try.”

He stepped out beside me, arms crossed, body close enough to feel but not touch.

“Too much sugar?” he said.

“Too much everything.”

We stood there for a minute.

No games.

No footsie.

Just space.

Cold air and the weight of a shared secret pressing down on both of us. I braced my hands on the balustrade, leaning into the cold wood like it might steady me. The night air bit at my skin where the sleeves had pushed up. Somewhere in the woods, something cracked—a limb breaking, or maybe just the sound of tension finally giving way.

Behind me, Drew stepped closer.

I didn’t look.

Didn’t move.

But I felt him.

And then, gently, his hand slid along the railing beside mine. His fingers found mine—tentative at first—and then laced between them like he’d done it a hundred times before.

My breath caught.

I didn’t squeeze.

But I didn’t pull away either.

We stood like that.

Fingers interlocked. Shoulders close. The porch light off. The rest of the house asleep.

“I keep thinking about it,” he said quietly.

I didn’t ask what.

We both knew.

“You keep doing it,” I said, my voice lower than I meant for it to be. Less anger than ache.

His thumb brushed the side of my finger. Slow. Careful.

“Yeah.”

I stared straight ahead. Into trees I couldn’t see. Into a version of this moment that didn’t come with consequences.

“Is this a thing for you?” I asked. “Or just a phase? A secret you can have with me but not… after?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers held mine a little tighter.

Then, softly: “I don’t know yet.”

I nodded, eyes burning. “Can you tell me when you do?”

His hand squeezed mine, firm and steady now.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

We didn’t speak after that.

Just stood there, hand in hand, breathing in the cold.

And for the first time since Leah walked back through the door, I didn’t feel like I had to pretend I was okay.

Because maybe… just maybe… I wasn’t pretending alone.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Have you ever forayed into a forbidden relationship? Tell us about it.