Jason lay on the floor of the dining-kitchen area, his body moving with controlled precision as he pushed himself up and down. His muscles tensed with each repetition, sweat glistening on his skin.
One... two... three...
The steady rhythm of the hardwood floor creaking with every push up filled the quiet space, grounding him in the routine that kept his world from slipping further into chaos.
Then, the chime of his phone shattered the silence. Without breaking stride, Jason rolled onto his back, grabbing the device beside him.
Ariana.
Her name glowed on the screen like a lifeline, cutting through the mess of his life. His thumb hovered over the 'Accept' button for a brief second—hesitation flickering in his eyes before he finally tapped it.
"Good morning," her voice came through the speaker, soft and warm. It had an almost ethereal quality, stirring something deep inside him—hope, longing, maybe just the undeniable pull of her presence.
A month had passed since they last saw each other. She was away, studying at one of the most prestigious universities in the country, while he was still stuck here, anchored to a place that felt more like a cage with each passing day. Yet, in moments like these, the distance between them seemed to disappear. Ariana was a constant, a light in the storm—proof that not everything in his life was falling apart.
He let her voice wash over him, soothing the weight of everything pressing on his mind. But before he could fully lose himself in the comfort of their conversation, a voice cut through the moment.
"Jason! Breakfast is ready!"
His mother's call snapped him back to reality. With a sigh, he ended the call without saying goodbye—regretting it instantly—before pushing himself up and heading toward the kitchen.
His mother stood at the stove, stirring a simmering pot, the rich aroma of spices filling the air. She wore her usual loose-fitting traditional clothes. She glanced at him briefly, offering a small smile before returning to her task.
From down the hall, an alarm clock blared—a sharp reminder of his next responsibility. Something he did daily. His mother had asked him to wake up his older sister, Jenny, and he had no intention of arguing.
Jason made his way to their shared room. Jenny was sprawled across the bed, buried under a heap of blankets, her phone still clutched in her hand. He didn't bother with a gentle wake-up call. Instead, he grabbed the quilt and yanked it away in one swift motion.
The sheets fell away, revealing her barely covered figure—pink lace underwear and a matching bra, nothing else. The morning light filtering through the curtains cast soft shadows over her form, highlighting every curve, every imperfection. She was 'sexy', and Jason would've outright acknowledged it if not for the fact they were siblings. Her thighs especially looked voluptuous.
A sharp gasp broke the silence as Jenny bolted upright, clutching her arms around herself, her groggy mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
Jason simply stood there, his expression unreadable. He felt no guilt, no satisfaction—just the detachment of someone going through the motions.
To him, she was just another part of the routine. Another part of a household filled with expectations and silent disappointments.
Jenny worked long hours at a financial firm downtown, but to their parents, she was a disgrace. She smoked. She drank. She came home late, sometimes reeking of alcohol, sometimes with the stench of stale cigarettes clinging to her clothes.
A whore? Maybe. Maybe not. It wasn't his concern. He had no evidence, only a feeling from her behaviour.
Still, Jason didn't hate her. Keeping his distance was simply easier. Confrontation was pointless, and he had no energy for battles that weren't his to fight.
Shaking his head slightly, he turned and walked out, leaving Jenny to pull herself together. There was no need for words.
Jason slid into his usual spot at the dining table, the clatter of plates and the hum of the kettle filling the air. The smell of his mother's cooking—spiced eggs and toasted bread—mingled with the faint tang of coffee.
His father was long gone, dragged out of bed before dawn by a job on the other side of the world. The company's time difference had turned his life into a relentless grind, all for the slim hope of moving them abroad someday.
Jason barely saw him anymore, just a ghost who left coffee rings on the counter and crumpled ties in the laundry. It was a sacrifice, sure, but it left the house feeling hollow most days.
Across the table, Jenny sauntered in, her heels clicking against the floor. She'd swapped the pink lace for office attire that screamed trouble—a tight pencil skirt hugging her hips, barely covering half of her thighs, high enough to show off the tights clinging to her killer legs. Her shirt was crisp, unbuttoned just enough to tease the curve of her chest, every line of her figure carved out like she was daring someone to look. Even though she wasn't particularly busty, the way the shirt clung to her chest made it look like she had two perfect handfuls under there.
She caught Jason's glance and glared with annoyance for the way he woke her up, sliding into her chair with a lazy stretch that made the fabric pull tighter. He looked away, jaw clenching, focusing on the plate his mother set in front of him.
His mother, meanwhile, moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who'd done this routine too long. She'd ditched the loose traditional garb for her own office clothes—a tailored coat over formal pants and a shirt that fit just right.
Not as blatant as Jenny's getup, but the way the fabric skimmed her frame left no doubt about the body underneath. Sturdy, curved in all the right places, the kind of figure that didn't need to try—it just was. Fuckable, Jason thought, then shoved the word out of his head, stabbing his fork into the eggs. She sat down, sipping her coffee, oblivious to the tension coiling in his mind.
"Long day ahead?" his mother asked, her voice cutting through the silence.
Jenny shrugged, picking at her toast. "Same shit, different spreadsheet. You?"
"Meetings. Always meetings," their mother replied, her tone flat but her eyes flicking to Jason. "You okay, hon? You're quiet."
"Fine," he muttered, shoving a bite into his mouth. "It's nothing,"
After quickly eating breakfast Jason took off. He sighed as he stepped out of the house, the morning air sharp against his skin. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and started the walk to college, the familiar streets blurring past.
Halfway there, Aaron fell into step beside him, his grin wide and obnoxious.
"Man, you look like shit," Aaron said, clapping Jason on the back. "What's up?"
"Nothing," Jason muttered, but Aaron didn't care. He launched into a spiel about Melissa, his girlfriend, like he always did. She was in the college's only sorority, tight with Olivia, the queen bee who ruled it all. Aaron's voice buzzed in Jason's ears, relentless. "Last night, bro, Melissa was all over me. She's wild—loves it up the ass, can't get enough. I had her bent over, and she's moaning like—"
"Cool," Jason cut in, voice flat, but Aaron didn't notice.
He kept going, painting every detail—how Melissa's nails dug into him, how she begged for more. Jason's jaw tightened, irritation prickling under his skin. He hadn't seen Ariana in a month, hadn't touched her, and here was Aaron, bragging like a prick. Jealousy twisted in his chest, sour and heavy, but he kept his eyes forward, letting Aaron ramble until they hit the college gates.
"Catch you later," Jason said, peeling off toward his class, grateful for the silence.
He slid into his usual seat next to Sherry, the anti-social girl who barely existed in the real world. She was already there, hunched over her phone, glasses slipping down her nose. Sherry lived online—some virtual queen with a following she never talked about. In person, she was a ghost, blending into the crowd with her plain clothes and choppy haircut that hid half her face. Jason always told her she could be pretty if she tried—ditch the frumpy tops, fix the hair—but she'd just shrug. "My reality's not here," she'd say, eyes on her phone.
Today, though, something was different. No baggy jeans or faded tees. Sherry wore jean shorts that showed off her legs, a crop top hugging her waist, and a long coat draped down to her thighs. Still understated, but… fashionable, almost. The glasses stayed, the hair still fell in her face, but the shift caught Jason's eye. She glanced at him, catching his stare.
"What?" she asked, voice low, guarded.
"You look… different," he said, leaning back in his chair.
She smirked, barely, pushing her glasses up. "Don't get used to it."
He snorted, but his gaze lingered. Sherry wasn't Ariana, wasn't Jenny, wasn't even Melissa-level loud. She was quiet, hidden, but those small changes hinted at something under the surface.
"What's the occasion?" Jason asked, taking a slight peak at her exposed cleavage.
He couldn't peel his eyes off Sherry. The way her crop top clung to her frame, exposing that smooth midriff and the faint lines of her abs—it hit him hard, a sudden, irrational heat pooling low in his gut.
She wasn't his usual type, but damn if she didn't look fuckable today. He shifted in his seat, trying to focus as she rambled on.
"I've got an appointment with a temp tattoo artist after class," Sherry said, adjusting her coat. "Cosplay thing. Blurted it out on stream last week, so this outfit's efficient—tattoo on my midriff, one on my left thigh." She gestured vaguely at herself, oblivious to the way Jason's mind lingered on her skin.
"Makes sense," he replied, voice steady despite the itch in his hands. Their talk slid into video games—safe territory—and the day blurred past.
Before he knew it, he was behind the counter at the convenience store, the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. His part-time gig wasn't glamorous, but it paid, and the owner, Sydney, made it… interesting.
Sydney sprawled in the chair beside him, a vision in her early forties. Generational wealth had handed her this five-story condo, and she'd turned the ground floor into this store.
Right now, she lounged like she owned the world—which she kind of did—arms behind her head, staring at the ceiling. Her tight, sleeveless dress stretched from her shins up to her chest, hugging a killer figure that time hadn't touched. The fabric traced every curve, and with her arms up, her clean, bare armpits were on display. Jason didn't have an armpit fetish, not really, but something about Sydney's made him want to lean over and lick them, taste the salt of her skin. It was weird, specific, and he shoved the thought down, focusing on the register.
The bell jingled, snapping him back. Anna strolled in—Aaron's older sister, a regular. "Hey, Jason. Hey, Sydney," she tossed out, her voice casual as she headed deeper into the store. White crop top, purple skirt, no bra—her nipples pressed faintly against the fabric as she moved. Jason knew her routine: cola and a condom. She grabbed both, sauntered back, and dropped them on the counter with a smirk. He rang her up, avoiding her eyes, though the sway of her hips as she left didn't escape him.
Sydney chuckled, still staring at the ceiling. "She's a wild one. Runs through those condoms like candy."
Jason grunted, noncommittal. The day had started normal, but now it felt like every woman around him was dangling something he couldn't quite grab. He shifted behind the counter, restless, the hum of the store a dull backdrop to the heat creeping through him.
What the fuck was he doing? Irritation ran through him.
Sydney shifted in her chair, finally tilting her head toward Jason. "By the way, Jason, on weekends, come in for the day shift. I'll take the evenings." Her tone was casual, but the change hit him like a curveball. It was sudden, inconvenient—mornings were his time to sleep off the week—but he didn't argue. He just nodded, face blank. "Sure."
"Ayana helps out on weekend mornings too," Sydney added, stretching her arms higher, that damn dress pulling tighter across her chest. "Won't be too hard on you."
Jason kept his expression neutral, but inside, he was grinning. Ayana—Sydney's daughter, a year older than him—was a fucking knockout. Same killer genes as her mom: curves that could stop traffic, a smirk that promised trouble.
The thought of working the day shift didn't sound so bad anymore. He could already picture her behind the counter, maybe in something tight like Sydney's dress, all attitude and heat. Inconvenient? Nah, this might just be a perk.
The shift dragged to a close, the last customers trickling out. Jason grabbed his jacket and bag, clocked out, and headed home, the night air cool against his skin. His mind buzzed—Sherry's abs, Sydney's armpits, Anna's no-bra swagger, Jenny's pencil skirt, his mother's well defined curves and now Ayana looming on the horizon. The day had been a slow burn, and as he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that the weekend was about to turn it up a notch. He couldn't wait to meet up with Ariana and fuck her brains out.
The city was colder than usual tonight, and the wind carried that damp bite that crept into your bones if you stood still too long.
He turned onto the main road, walking past the usual crowd—office workers rushing home, a group of teenagers laughing too loud, a man smoking outside a bar. Just another night.
Then he saw the old man.
Not begging. Not calling for attention. Just sitting on the curb near the crosswalk, struggling with a flimsy plastic bag. The thing had ripped at the bottom, spilling a few cans and a loaf of bread onto the sidewalk. People walked around him without stopping. A few glanced down but kept moving.
Jason hesitated.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he walked over.
"Need a hand?"
The old man looked up, startled. His face was worn—deep wrinkles, tired eyes, the kind that had seen too many winters. He gave a small, embarrassed chuckle. "Ah, damn thing tore on me. These cheap bags don't last."
Jason crouched down and started gathering the cans. He picked up the loaf of bread, dusted it off, and placed it carefully back on top. Then he took off his backpack, unzipped it, and handed it over.
"Here. Use this."
The man blinked. "What?"
"The bag's busted. Just take this."
"You sure?"
Jason shrugged. "Yeah."
The old man took the backpack with a slow nod, zipping it up carefully. "That's kind of you, son. People don't stop much these days." He hesitated for a moment before adding, "Wait here, I'll bring this back."
Jason shook his head. "You don't have to. It's no big deal—I've got another at home." He didn't, but whatever. His place was close enough that carrying his stuff home wouldn't be a problem, and the bag was already old and worn out anyway.
The man patted the bag, then reached into his pocket and pulled something out. A small coin—old-looking, the kind that didn't match any currency Jason recognized. He held it out.
"Then take this."
Jason frowned. "You don't have to—"
"Just take it," the man insisted, pressing it into his palm. "Call it… a thank-you."
Jason glanced down at the coin. It was heavier than it looked, the surface worn smooth except for faint, almost unreadable markings.
When he looked up again, the old man was already moving, walking off into the night.
Jason stood there for a moment, flipping the coin between his fingers.
Didn't look like much.
Didn't feel like much.
And yet, as he slipped it into his wallet and continued home, he couldn't shake the feeling—
That tiny moment had just changed something.
He just didn't know what yet.