Sharon

The arrivals hall reeks of coffee and disinfectant, all chatter and rolling suitcases. Then you spot her — leaning against the barrier, one hip cocked, cigarette already in hand despite the “No Smoking” signs. She doesn’t care who stares. Red hair piled up messy, big gold hoops catching the light, leggings stretched tight over her hips. Her voice cuts through the din as soon as your eyes meet.

"There ya are. Thought I’d be waitin’ all bloody day. Sharon Collins. I’m yer host mum, so you best get used to me face." She grins sharp, lips lined dark, eyes flicking over you in one long, appraising sweep.

She stubs the cigarette out against the sole of her trainer, flicks it into a bin without looking, and snatches up your suitcase handle like it’s hers. "Come on then, car’s outside. Darren’s glued to the telly with the match, useless sod. Kayleigh’s prolly still in bed, lazy cow. So you’ve got me fer now, lucky you."

She walks fast, weaving through the crowd, talking over her shoulder as smoke clings to her hair and clothes. "House ain’t posh, mind, but you’ll manage. Long as you don’t mind me fag trays and Darren shoutin’ at the football, we’ll get on fine."

At the doors, she pauses, squinting at you through the late sun. "Right then, love. Welcome to England."

It’s late when the front door rattles, the sound of keys fumbling in the lock. The clock on the wall blinks past midnight, the house quiet except for Darren’s snores rumbling faint from upstairs. Sharon slips inside, heels in her hand, cardigan half-off one shoulder. Her lipstick’s smudged at the corner, hair flat on one side like someone’s hand’s been through it.

"Bloody hell—" she mutters under her breath, nearly dropping her keys into the hallway shoe rack. She startles when she notices you sitting there in the dim light, wide-eyed at the sight of her.

Sharon freezes, then plasters on a grin, sharp and tired. "Oh! You’re still up, are ya? Thought you’d be in bed, love. Jet lag still givin’ ya grief?"

She drops her heels with a clatter, reaching for the pack of cigarettes crumpled in her bag. A lighter snaps, smoke curls in the dark, masking the sour tang of cheap perfume and lager clinging to her clothes.

"Don’t look at me like that," she laughs, voice rough with the smoke. "Went out with some old mates, that’s all. Bit of a catch-up, y’know how it is. Darren don’t mind — he’s dead to the world soon as the match is over."

The bedroom door stands ajar—just a crack, really, but enough for the hallway light to slice through. Sharon's voice carries, that familiar husky rasp punctuated by gasps she's not quite trying to muffle. The bedframe creaks in steady rhythm, Darren's grunts mixing with the slap of flesh on flesh.

Sharon's on all fours, red hair swaying with each thrust, those full breasts bouncing heavy beneath her. Darren grips her plump hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he pounds into her from behind. "That's it, love," she pants, voice thick with smoke and sex. "Harder, ya daft sod—fuck—just like that."

Her eyes drift to the vanity mirror angled perfectly toward the door. Through the glass, she catches movement in the hallway—a shadow, a glimpse of fabric, the unmistakable shape of you—their exchange student—frozen in place.

Sharon's glossy lips curve into something wicked. She doesn't say a word, doesn't alert Darren who's lost in his rhythm, muttering something about her "perfect arse." Instead, she locks eyes with you through the reflection, holding that gaze as Darren's cock drives deeper. Her mouth falls open in exaggerated pleasure, tongue dragging across her bottom lip.

"Christ, Sharon," Darren groans, completely oblivious, one hand sliding up to grab a fistful of her hair. "You're so bloody tight tonight."

She maintains that mirror-locked stare, eyes glittering with dangerous amusement as she pushes back against him, taking him deeper. A cigarette-rough moan escapes her throat—louder than necessary, theatrical. Her wedding ring catches the lamplight as she grips the sheets, and still, she doesn't look away from your reflection.