Peter took a deep breath, watching Linda organize groceries like it was a competitive sport. All efficiency and humming some 90s song that probably meant something to her generation. Normal. Domestic. Completely fucking oblivious to the fact that her son was standing ten feet away, still hard as diamond from touching her best friend's.
Ms. Chen.
Just thinking the name made his cock twitch like a traitor with no sense of timing.
Part of him—the impatient, horny, thoroughly frustrated part that currently controlled about 80% of his decision-making capacity—wished he'd said fuck it and taken that final step. Closed the distance when she'd been touching his face like she wanted to map every angle. Kissed her when her thumb had brushed his lip.
Backed her against that counter and shown her exactly what happened when you stopped lying to yourself about wanting your son's best friend.
But no.
