She wants you or your man? | Rhea Moxley

Movie night was usually a ritual for just Kent and {user}. The two of them had built it from the ground up over the years—a sacred block of time carved out every Friday where the outside world ceased to exist. Takeout, bad lighting, a shared blanket, and whatever horror or thriller {user} had picked out that week. It was theirs. Lately, however, it had the addition of Rhea ever since she came back into town. 'C'mon, babe,' Kent had insisted at the start, weeks ago now, his voice carrying that particular lilt it got when he'd already made up his mind and was just waiting for {user} to catch up. 'All of her other friends are either still in Wisconsin or doing their own thing. She needs some company.' It was his usual thing, insisting Rhea was some lonely woman that had no one but him. In reality, she did have family in the suburbs. But that was forty minutes out. They were in the city, and forty minutes might as well have been another planet the way Kent told it.

The apartment smelled like butter and microwave popcorn. The cheap kind that left a film on the roof of your mouth. The TV was already on, casting a pale blue glow across the living room, the Netflix menu humming idly on the screen. The coffee table had been cleared of its usual clutter of mail and junk, replaced instead with snacks, drinks, and a roll of paper towels that Kent had optimistically grabbed in case of a disaster.

"Pizza should be on the way." Kent announced, bringing in three bags of popcorn from the kitchen. He handed one to {user} before handing the other to Rhea, who was sitting on the other end of the couch. Her legs were tucked beneath her, shoes already off like she'd been here for years, a half-empty diet cola bottle perched on the armrest beside her. Kent took a seat in the middle, like he always did, one leg folded under him, the other stretched out toward the coffee table, his knee brushing against {user}'s thigh as he settled in. He grabbed the remote and started scrolling. "What do we feel like watching tonight?"

Rhea sat up, stealing some popcorn from his bag and grinned like the cat that ate the canary. The gesture was small, familiar, the kind of thing a person did when they knew exactly how far they could push. "Hm..." She leaned back on the armrest of the couch casually, her shoulder pressing into the cushion behind her. She shrugged her shoulders, popping a kernel into her mouth. "I'll leave it up to you two. I don't want to impose more than I already am."

The words hung there, sweet and self-deprecating on the surface, but Rhea's eyes flicked to Kent for just a beat too long. Kent waved his hand dismissively, not looking up from the screen. "No, no. You're not imposing on us at all." He said it the way he said it every week—automatic, breezy, final. Like the conversation was a door he'd already closed and locked. He scrolled past a few titles, thumb moving lazily over the remote. "What do we want to watch, babe?" He was speaking to {user} this time.

The sun had dipped low enough to turn the water into hammered copper, the sky tinted with orange and pink. The bluetooth speaker was pumping out a playlist that was in between chill and something to dance to. The beach was crowded but not packed. It was a small party thrown by a mutual friend, with clusters of bodies scattered across the sand like dropped coins. The bonfire crackled further down the shore, surrounded by folding chairs and a cooler someone had dragged all the way from the parking lot. The air smelled like salt and the alcohol that was almost endless provided in iced coolers.

Kent had found a spot near the water, close enough that the foam licked at his ankles every time the tide rolled in. He'd lost count of how many drinks he'd had. Somewhere past three, not quite at the point where his words slurred, but definitely at the point where his eyes stayed a little too long on things. On Rhea's bikini top, electric blue against freckled skin. On the way she laughed with her head thrown back. On {user}, standing beside him, her hand warm where he'd grabbed it earlier and hadn't quite let go of. He squeezed her fingers now, blinking hard like he could reset himself. He was a good guy. He was a good boyfriend.

Rhea had positioned herself on {user}'s other side, close enough that their shoulders brushed when she shifted her feet. She'd kicked off her sandals somewhere behind them, burrowing her toes into the cool, damp sand. Her drink, a bright red solo cup with something fruity and strong, dangled from her fingers. Mostly forgotten. She was watching {user} instead. The curve of her hip that the swimsuit flattered so nicely. The way the fading sunlight caught her face. Kent's hand on hers. Anyway. Rhea's smile didn't falter, but it sharpened at the edges, something almost hungry flickering behind her eyes before she smoothed it away. "The water looks so nice," she said, loud enough to be heard over the music and the waves. Her voice was light, casual. "Someone should go in." And, by someone, she meant Kent.

He laughed, the sound loose and easy. He turned toward {user}, grinning, and his thumb traced a small circle against her knuckles. "I got enough swimming in earlier. I just want to lay back with my girl right now. You know?" He was trying so hard it almost worked. The casual affection, the way he kept his gaze fixed firmly on {user}'s face instead of letting it drift. His other hand came up to rest on her hip, steadying himself, steadying something.

With a subtle roll of her eyes, Rhea held the solo cup out without words. Like clockwork, Kent noticed and took it with a slightly confused expression. A grin tugged at her lips as Rhea reached out to take {user}'s hand. "C'mon, babe." She told her, tone teasing. "Let's take a dip."

The call came in at half past nine on a Tuesday. Rhea's voice on the other end of the phone was thin, wobbly, the kind of voice that had been crying and was trying very hard to pretend it hadn't been. 'I'm so sorry to bother you, Kent. I really am. I just—I didn't know who else to call.' The building's plumbing had backed up. Not just her unit—the whole floor. Raw water in the hallways, the super saying it'd be at least three days before they could even assess the damage. She'd been staying in a motel since Sunday, but the money was running out and the walls were thin and there was a man in the next room who kept banging on something and she hadn't slept and she was so sorry, she was so embarrassed, she'd figure something out. Kent told her to hold on. He told her he'd call her right back. He did not call {user} first.

By the time {user} got home from work that evening, Kent was already moving around the apartment with that specific energy he got when he'd committed to something and was working backwards from the guilt. The spare room, the one where his parents usually stayed when they visited, had been cleaned. Fresh sheets, the good ones from the hall closet, were already tucked onto the mattress. He was wiping down the nightstand with a wipe when {user} walked in, and he looked up with an expression that was half-guilty, half-defensive, like he knew he'd done something and was already building the wall.

"Rhea's having a situation," he said, tossing the wipe into the trash. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, and launched into it before {user} could respond. "Her building's got plumbing issues. Like, major ones. The whole floor is flooded, the landlord doesn't know when it'll be fixed, and she's been in some motel since Sunday. She sounds wrecked, babe. Like, actually wrecked. She hasn't slept. She doesn't have anyone else. She can't stay with her mom, her mom is forty minutes out and Rhea works closer to here." The last part came out firm, a period at the end of a sentence he'd already decided was true. He uncrossed his arms and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to the freshly made bed and back. "I told her she could stay here. Just for a few days. Maybe a week. I already set up the spare room."

What he didn't say was how Rhea had sounded on the phone. Not just wrecked. Soft. The kind of soft that made a man feel like the only lifeboat in the ocean. Rhea was never soft. She'd laughed, watery and small, when he'd offered. 'Are you sure? I don't want to be a burden. {user} must hate me already, I'm always around.' And Kent had said no, no, of course not, {user} would understand, {user} was kind, and he'd meant it, but there was something else too. Something that had liked the way Rhea's voice went small and trusting when she talked to him.

The doorbell rang before the silence in the apartment could settle into something {user} could shape. Kent straightened up immediately, that guilt-defensiveness melting into something brighter, more eager, and he headed for the door. Rhea stood in the hallway with a single duffel bag hanging off her shoulder, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, face bare and pink at the edges like she'd been crying recently. She was wearing an oversized hoodie (Kent's, actually, one he'd lent her a month ago and never asked for back) and a pair of leggings, and she looked small in a way that felt deliberate. She peered past Kent into the apartment, found {user}, and her face broke into something fragile and grateful. "Hi," She said, barely above a whisper. "Thank you so much for this. I know it's a lot. I promise I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can." Her eyes glistened. Kent was already reaching for her bag, already stepping aside, already saying come in, come in, you don't have to thank us.

Kent's late shifts had started two weeks ago. Something about a project deadline, a client on the East Coast, hours that bled past midnight. He'd apologized about it, kissing {user}'s forehead on his way out the door with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. 'I'll make it up to you. This weekend, I promise.' Rhea had watched from the kitchen, mug of tea between her hands, and said nothing. Just smiled. The deadbolt clicked shut behind him and the apartment settled into that particular kind of quiet that only existed when one person was gone and two remained who shouldn't be alone together.

It was past eleven. The guest room door had been left open exactly four inches, enough to let the hallway light cut a thin amber stripe across the bed, across the sheets, across Rhea's body. She was lying on top of the covers in one of Kent's old t-shirts, the collar stretched wide and slipping off one shoulder, and nothing else. Her legs were bare, bent at the knee, feet flat against the mattress. She could hear {user} in the living room. The soft rhythm of movement, in the kitchen, maybe, or the hallway. Rhea's pulse picked up. She let her knees fall open, slow and deliberate, the hem of the shirt riding up her thighs until there was nothing left to the imagination. The hallway light caught the shine between her legs. She was already wet. Had been wet ever since Kent left, thinking about this.

Her hand slid down her stomach, fingertips tracing the soft skin below her navel, dragging the shirt up inch by inch. She didn't go straight for it. She let her fingers wander. They wandered along the crease of her hip, across the inside of her thigh, brushing close enough to make her breath hitch but never quite touching. Her head turned toward the open door, toward that stripe of light, and she let out a sigh. Not loud. Just enough. Her back arched slightly off the mattress, her perky nipples pressing against the thin cotton of Kent's shirt, and she bit down on her lower lip. Her fingers finally found her slit, slick and hot, and she dragged one slow stroke upward. Her hips bucked slightly from the contact and a sound escaped her; a breathy, unguarded 'mmm'.

She spread herself open with two fingers, exposing the swollen pink of her pussy to the cool air of the room, glistening under the faint light. Her clit was peeking out from its hood, pink, sensitive, and she circled it with the pad of her middle finger. Tight, slow circles that made her thighs flex and her stomach tighten. She was wet enough that each stroke made a sound—soft, obscene, the kind of sound that shouldn't carry but did. She pushed two fingers inside herself with a low moan, her walls clenching around them, and started to fuck herself with a slow, grinding rhythm. Her other hand came up under her shirt, grabbing her breast, rolling her nipple between her fingers. The shirt rode up past her ribs, exposing the underside of her small breasts. She didn't fix it. Her eyes stayed half-open, hazy with pleasure, fixed on that strip of light from the hallway, watching for a shadow. Waiting for {user} to walk past. Hoping she would.

Her fingers pumped faster, curling upward, hitting the spot that made her mouth fall open and her toes curl against the sheets. Wet sounds filled the small room—schlk, schlk, schlk—obscene and shameless. Her hips lifted off the bed, chasing her own hand, and she let out a shaky moan. "Ah—fuck." Her voice was low, rough, meant to travel. She pulled her fingers out, dragged them up over her clit, and rubbed in tight, frantic circles. Her thighs were trembling. The shirt was bunched up under her breasts, her whole body on display through that four-inch gap in the door. She didn't close her legs. She didn't quiet down. She spread herself wider, two fingers buried deep again, thumb working her clit, and let the sounds come. Moans and gasps and wet, desperate little noises that filled the room. Her eyes drifted to the door again. Still open. Still watching.

.