The house is darker downstairs, lit only by the thin wash of moonlight coming through the windows, but it’s enough. She doesn’t need to turn anything on as she makes her way to the kitchen, each step following the same path she remembers without needing to think about it.

She takes a glass from the cupboard, fills it halfway, and carries it to the table before sitting down. The chair feels different at this hour, colder and still in a way it isn’t during the day, and she wraps her fingers loosely around the glass without drinking.

Her head is busy.

Legally, she has until noon on Monday, and everyone knows that. It isn’t a secret, just something understood, but most don’t wait. Most go in on Sunday because it’s easier that way, cleaner, something you don’t stretch out longer than it needs to be, something you don’t sit with.

She tilts the glass slightly in her hand, watching the surface of the water shift.

One more day.

It doesn’t sound like much, and it isn’t, really, but it’s still a day.

She doesn’t know if it’s better to take it or not.

The light flicks on.

Riley blinks against it and turns slightly in her seat as Amanda’s mom appears in the doorway, her dressing gown pulled loosely around her and her hair slightly out of place from sleep. She takes in the scene without surprise—Riley at the table, the glass, the quiet—and doesn’t comment on any of it.

Instead, she walks in slowly, her attention settling on Riley in a way that isn’t sharp, just present. There’s something in the way Riley is sitting, in the stillness of her, in the weight of the thought she’s carrying, and the recognition of it shows without needing to be named.

She pulls out the chair beside her and sits, looking at Riley for a moment before lifting her hand and tapping lightly against her own lap. “Like you used to do when you were little?”

Riley’s expression softens, a small smile forming almost automatically. “Yeah,” she says quietly.

She stands and steps over, turning slightly before lowering herself into her lap, the movement easy and familiar in a way that doesn’t need to be explained. She settles there fully, her weight resting without hesitation, her head leaning into Amanda’s mom’s shoulder as the arm that comes around her does so just as naturally, not tight, just there.

“Hey,” her mom murmurs softly.

Riley exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly.

“What’s on your mind?”

Riley’s gaze drops toward the glass still sitting on the table, untouched. “Just thinking about tomorrow,” she says. “Whether I should go in… or wait until Monday.”

The words settle between them, and Amanda’s mom doesn’t answer right away. She lets the silence sit, her hand resting lightly against Riley’s arm as her thumb moves in slow, absent circles.

When she does speak, her voice stays soft.

“I won’t pretend to know how hard this must be,” she says.

Riley doesn’t move or look up.

“But you’re doing a wonderful thing,” she continues, just as gently. “You know that, right?”

The words don’t sound rehearsed. They carry a quiet certainty, something she believes without needing to question.

Riley’s fingers tighten slightly where they rest against her own leg, the movement small and contained. “…yeah,” she says after a moment, the word not strong, but not uncertain either.

Amanda’s mom nods faintly, her cheek brushing lightly against Riley’s hair as she settles more comfortably in the chair. “We’re all very proud of you,” she adds, quieter now, her hand smoothing once over Riley’s arm before coming to rest again.

Riley leans into her a little more, the contact easy and accepted, and the kitchen stays still around them as the glass of water remains untouched on the table.

Neither of them rushes the moment.

Amanda’s mom doesn’t say anything more after that, her hand continuing its slow, steady motion along Riley’s arm and then her side, the touch grounding and consistent. Riley leans into it further, her breathing evening out as the tension in her shoulders softens, the silence stretching around them in a way that doesn’t feel empty, just held.

After a while, the movement shifts.

Her hand slides lower, unhurried, settling briefly at Riley’s hip before continuing, the contact still gentle and absent of urgency, another adjustment rather than a change.

Riley doesn’t react and doesn’t pull away, her head staying where it is, tucked into her shoulder.

The hand moves further, continuing without pause until it settles between her legs.

The warmth spreads slow as honey—Amanda’s mom’s fingers tracing idle circles against Riley’s inner thigh, the touch light enough to be accidental if not for the way it lingers, deliberate. Riley’s breath hitches, just once, before she stills herself, the practiced calm settling back over her like a second skin. The kitchen hums with the quiet of night, the refrigerator’s muted buzz the only witness.

Her fingers dip lower, brushing feather-light over the softness there, and Riley’s toes curl reflexively against the cool tile floor. It’s not the first time she’s been touched like this—compliant, pliant, expected—but the familiarity doesn’t dull the heat pooling low in her stomach. Amanda’s mom exhales softly against her temple, her other arm tightening just slightly around Riley’s waist, anchoring her.

There’s no hesitation in the way her fingers part her, no question in the glide of skin against skin. Riley’s eyes flutter shut, her lips parting around a quiet, unvoiced sigh. The touch is slow, methodical, almost clinical in its gentleness—no rush, no demand, just the steady, unhurried press of a thumb against her clit, circling once, twice, until Riley’s hips tilt forward of their own accord.

Amanda’s mom murmurs something low and approving against her hair, her breath warm, her palm cupping Riley fully now, the heel of her hand applying just enough pressure to draw a soft, shuddering gasp from her throat. The world narrows to the rhythm of those fingers, the quiet slickness between her legs, the way her body responds without permission, without thought—just acceptance, just surrender.

Then, without warning, Riley’s back arches, her hips lifting sharply into the touch as pleasure crests, sudden and overwhelming. Her fingers clutch at Amanda’s mom’s robe, twisting the fabric in silent desperation, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. In that suspended moment—her vision blurring, her body taut as a bowstring—she turns her head blindly, her lips brushing against Amanda’s mom’s jaw, then higher, catching the corner of her mouth in a clumsy, fleeting kiss.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves. Then Amanda’s mom exhales, slow and steady, her thumb still circling Riley’s clit in slow, measured strokes, drawing out the aftershocks until Riley sags bonelessly against her. The kiss lingers, unacknowledged but not withdrawn from, Riley’s lips parted against hers, warm and damp with shared breath.

The kitchen settles back into stillness around them, the refrigerator humming softly, the air thick with the scent of salt and skin. Amanda’s mom doesn’t pull away—not her hand, not her body—just holds Riley there, her fingers still moving in slow, absent patterns as if there’s no reason to stop. And Riley, dazed and pliant, lets herself be kept, the shape of the moment settling around her as something she doesn’t need to question.

Time passes without marking itself clearly, the quiet stretching in a way that feels longer than it is. Riley’s breathing steadies, her body easing further into the contact, each small movement of Amanda’s mom’s hand grounding rather than drawing attention, the repetition smoothing out whatever tension had been building earlier.

Neither of them speaks.

There isn’t anything that needs to be said.

Outside, the night holds steady, the faint glow through the window unchanged, and inside the kitchen everything remains contained within that small, shared space—two bodies, one held, one holding, both settled into something that feels, on the surface, simple.

After a while, the movement slows.

Not stopping entirely, just softening, becoming less deliberate, less necessary.

Riley shifts slightly where she sits, the change subtle, more a repositioning than a break, and Amanda’s mom adjusts with her without thinking, the contact maintained without needing to be re-established. The moment lingers a little longer, stretching just enough to feel complete rather than interrupted.

Eventually, Riley’s gaze drifts back to the table, to the glass still waiting where she left it, the water inside unmoving now.

She doesn’t reach for it.

Instead, she stays where she is for a few seconds more, letting the quiet settle fully before she exhales softly and straightens just enough to pull away, not abruptly, not in a way that disrupts anything, just enough to shift the shape of the moment.

Amanda’s mom lets her go without resistance, her hand falling still as Riley moves, though her presence remains just as steady.

“You should get some rest,” she says after a moment, her voice low and even, like the suggestion has been waiting.

Riley nods, the motion small. “Yeah.”

She stands slowly, the movement unhurried, and for a second she lingers there, as if expecting something more to follow, before turning back toward the hallway.

The kitchen stays quiet behind her as she leaves, the light still on, the chair slightly out from the table, the glass untouched.

Upstairs, Amanda hasn’t moved.

The room is just as she left it, the same steady rhythm of breathing filling the space as Riley climbs back onto the bed, settling again on top of the covers in the same careful position. This time, though, her body gives in more easily, the tension gone or at least quieted enough not to hold her awake.

She lies still for a moment, eyes open, before they close.

And this time, sleep comes.