The Commune on Cedar Street
Later, as we climb the stairs to our attic room, Leo’s voice is tight. “You seemed… taken with River.”
I hesitate, my hand on the doorknob. “They’re interesting,” I say carefully. “There’s a… vibrancy to them.”
Leo nods, but his eyes are shadowed. “Just… be careful, okay? This is all so new.”
I lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I will,” I murmur. “We’re in this together, remember?”
But as I slip into bed beside him, listening to the slow, even sound of his breathing, I can’t stop thinking about River’s hands, about the spark I felt when our eyes met. It’s a dangerous thing, this wanting. A force that could unravel everything we’ve built. Or maybe, just maybe, it could weave us into something new, something stronger.
The clock on the nightstand ticks softly, marking the passing of seconds, minutes, hours. Outside, the wind sighs in the eaves, a mournful sound that echoes the ache in my chest. Sleep is a long time coming.
The next morning, I wake early, the gray light of dawn filtering through the skylight. Leo is still asleep, his face relaxed and peaceful, and I watch him for a moment, tracing the familiar lines of his profile with my eyes. The tenderness I feel for him is a physical ache, a counterpoint to the restless energy humming beneath my skin.
I slip out of bed, padding quietly down the stairs in my bare feet. The house is still asleep, the only sound the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. I find myself drawn to the pottery studio, a small outbuilding at the back of the property that River has claimed as their own.
The door is ajar, and I push it open, the scent of damp earth and minerals greeting me. River is already there, their back to me, their hands moving with sure, practiced motions over a spinning lump of clay. They’re wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans, their feet bare on the cool concrete floor.
I watch them for a moment, transfixed by the way their body moves in concert with the wheel, the way their fingers coax form from nothingness. It’s a kind of magic, this act of creation, and I feel a pull low in my belly, a hunger I can’t deny.
“Morning,” I say softly, announcing my presence.
River looks up, their eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Maya. Hi.” They smile, wiping their hands on a rag. “You’re up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit, stepping further into the room. The clay is cool and smooth under my fingertips as I trail them along the edge of a nearby worktable. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” River says, their gaze warm on my face. “I’m just playing around. Trying to get a feel for a new glaze.”
I nod, my eyes drifting to the wheel. “It’s mesmerizing, watching you work. There’s a… sensuality to it.”
River’s lips quirk in a smile. “There is, isn’t there? It’s very tactile. Very… intimate.”
The word hangs in the air between us, charged and heavy. I feel a flush rise to my cheeks, and I look away, suddenly shy. “Can I try?” I ask impulsively, gesturing to the wheel.
River raises an eyebrow. “Sure,” they say, stepping back to make space for me. “It takes practice, but I can show you the basics.”
I settle onto the stool, my knees brushing against theirs as they position me in front of the wheel. Their touch is light, guiding, as they place my hands on the cool, wet clay.
“Centering is the hardest part,” they murmur, their breath warm against my ear. “You have to be firm, but gentle. Let the wheel do the work.”
I nod, my heart pounding in my chest as I press my palms against the spinning clay. It’s slick and yielding, molding itself to my touch. River’s hands cover mine, their fingers warm and sure, guiding my movements with a quiet confidence.
“Like this,” they say, their voice low and intimate. “Feel the rhythm. Let it flow through you.”
I close my eyes, losing myself in the sensation. The hum of the wheel, the cool slide of the clay, the warmth of River’s body pressed close to mine. It’s heady, intoxicating, and I feel a thrill run through me at the contact.
“That’s it,” River breathes, their lips brushing against my hair. “You’ve got it.”
I open my eyes, and our gazes lock. There’s a heat in their eyes, an intensity that steals my breath. Without thinking, I lean in, my lips finding theirs in a soft, tentative kiss.
It’s a spark, a conflagration. River’s hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and I sigh against their mouth, my body molding itself to theirs. The kiss is slow, exploratory, a question and an answer all at once.
When we break apart, we’re both breathless, our foreheads pressed together. River’s thumb traces the line of my jaw, their touch setting my skin on fire.
“This is… unexpected,” they murmur, their voice rough with want.
I nod, my thoughts racing. “It is. But I don’t want to stop.”
River smiles then, a wicked, dangerous thing. “Who says we have to?”
Their lips find mine again, hungrier this time, more urgent. I lose myself in the kiss, in the feel of their body against mine, in the scent of clay and desire that fills the air.
It’s only later, when I’m walking back to the house, my body still humming with the aftereffects of River’s touch, that I see him. Leo is standing at the kitchen window, a mug of coffee forgotten in his hand. His face is pale, his eyes shadowed with an emotion I can’t quite name.
Guilt washes over me, cold and heavy, and I quicken my pace, suddenly desperate to put distance between myself and the studio, between myself and the tangled web of desire and fear that threatens to ensnare us all.
The clock in the hallway chimes softly: 7:15 a.m. The day has barely begun, and already I feel the weight of my choices pressing down on me, a stone in the pit of my stomach.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of forced normalcy. I avoid the pottery studio, throwing myself into unpacking the last of our boxes, organizing our new space with a fervor that borders on manic. Leo is quiet, his gaze following me as I move through the attic room, but he doesn’t mention what he saw, and I don’t offer an explanation.
It’s not until late that night, when we’re lying in bed side by side, the darkness pressing in around us, that he finally speaks.
“Did you kiss River this morning?” His voice is low, carefully neutral, but I can hear the tension beneath the surface.
I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat. “Yes,” I say softly, rolling onto my side to face him. “I did.”
He’s silent for a long moment, his profile etched in the moonlight filtering through the skylight. “Did you want to?” he asks finally, his voice rough.
I hesitate, torn between the desire to be honest and the fear of hurting him. “Yes,” I admit. “I did.”
He nods, his jaw tight. “Okay.” The word is clipped, brittle. “Okay. I just… I need to know these things, Maya. I can’t be blindsided by this.”
Guilt washes over me, hot and prickly. “I know. I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.” I reach for his hand, but he pulls away, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.
“I thought we agreed to communicate,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “I thought we were in this together.”
“We are,” I insist, my throat tight. “I just… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
He laughs then, a harsh, humorless sound. “Well, mission accomplished.” He scrubs a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping. “I knew this would happen. I knew I wasn’t cut out for this.”
I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees. “Don’t say that. We can figure this out. We just… we need to talk about it. Properly.”
He sighs, the sound heavy in the quiet room. “I don’t know if I can do this, Maya. Seeing you with someone else… it feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest.”
His words are a physical blow, and I flinch, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“I know,” he says, his voice softening slightly. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.” He sits up, mirroring my posture, his gaze meeting mine in the darkness. “I need you to be honest with me. About everything. Even if you think it’ll hurt me. Even if you think I don’t want to hear it.”
I nod, my throat aching. “I will. I promise.”