Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

The morning after didn't feel like morning at all.

It felt like a pause in time—a breath held between chapters. Outside, the city was waking up slowly, golden light slipping between the slats of Serena's blinds, touching her bedroom floor like fingers hesitant to disturb what had happened the night before.

She lay on her side, still tangled in the warmth of Damon's body. His arm rested over her waist, heavy with a kind of trust that didn't need to speak. Their legs were a mess of warmth beneath the sheets, her bare back pressed to his chest, his breath slow against the curve of her neck.

It was the first time she'd ever seen him sleep.

And it hurt.

Not because he looked vulnerable.

But because he looked peaceful.

Like this—she—was the only place he'd ever been safe enough to let go.

Serena stared at the wall across from them, not blinking, not thinking. Just feeling.

The world outside could be burning. The past could come crawling back with a knife in its hand. But here—here in this fragile silence—they had found something untouched.

Real.

She turned slightly in his arms, careful not to wake him. Her fingertips traced the edge of his jaw, the shadow of stubble, the faint bruises of sleepless nights etched into his under-eyes. He didn't stir. His breathing remained even.

And yet she whispered to him anyway.

"Don't disappear on me," she said, barely audible. "Even if you think you're protecting me."

She wasn't sure if she meant in the future, or right now—because part of her feared this was all a dream. A beautiful, brutal dream that would vanish the moment her feet hit the floor.

And she couldn't afford to lose anything else that felt this… real.

---

But real didn't last long.

By the time she made it to the kitchen, wrapped in one of Damon's crisp button-downs, her phone vibrated violently across the marble counter.

A message.

Unknown number.

No words.

Just… a photo.

Her breath stilled in her chest.

It was her—in her apartment—last night.

Only… the photo wasn't taken by her. Or Damon. Or any security camera she knew about.

It was grainy. Dark. Shot from the reflection of her hallway mirror.

She zoomed in.

There was a figure in the far corner of the glass.

Half-hidden in the shadows. A feminine silhouette. Not tall. Not masculine. But deliberate.

Watching.

Waiting.

Serena's stomach turned.

She turned on her heel, scanning her hallway. She moved like a ghost through her own space, checking the windows, the doors, the alarm system. Everything was intact. No signs of forced entry. No tripped sensors.

And yet someone had been there.

Someone who knew how to hide in places no security system would ever look.

She stood in front of the hallway mirror, staring at it—hard.

There was nothing unusual about it. An antique she'd inherited from her mother. Framed in silver and filigree. She stepped closer.

And for a moment—just one second—she could've sworn the reflection lagged.

Not her body.

Not her movement.

But her eyes.

They stared back with something too old, too sad, too knowing.

Serena stepped back quickly.

Her hands trembled.

She turned and headed to the bedroom.

---

Damon was awake now, sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but a pair of dark slacks. His back was to her, muscles tense, jaw working like he was chewing on the edge of a memory he couldn't swallow.

"Damon," she said quietly.

He turned. His eyes met hers—and narrowed instantly.

"You're pale."

She held out the phone.

He stood immediately, took it in one hand, and studied the image with a hunter's stillness.

His shoulders tightened.

"I know that mirror," he said.

Serena frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I've seen it before. Years ago. It used to belong to the Allcot family. Old money. Old secrets. That mirror has… history."

Her chest felt tight. "You're saying this is about the mirror?"

"I'm saying nothing that stays silent that long stays innocent."

He handed the phone back and walked to his shirt, throwing it on quickly. "Where did you get this mirror?"

Serena swallowed. "It was my mother's. She gave it to me when I moved in."

He paused. Turned slowly.

"Your mother," he said, voice unreadable. "What do you know about her past?"

Serena felt something crack in her.

Not fear.

Not yet.

But a silence that felt… staged.

"My mother was brilliant. Kind. Tough. But… private. She never talked about her childhood. Or her family. I didn't even meet her side of the family until her funeral."

Damon looked troubled.

"What?" she asked.

"I think we need to go deeper. Find out where this mirror came from. Who touched it. Who gave it to your mother. Because if this image is real—if someone is using that mirror to watch you—we're not just dealing with secrets."

He stepped closer, voice dropping.

"We're dealing with someone who knows how to use reflections as a door."

Serena's heart thudded.

"You mean like—"

"Yes." His eyes were deadly calm now. "A watcher."

The air left her lungs.

Watchers.

She had heard the name before. In old stories. Tales whispered at charity galas, folklore dressed up as gossip. People who didn't exist in reality but somehow haunted history books. Eyes in mirrors. Faces in reflections. Ghosts you never invited in—but who came anyway.

Her voice was a whisper. "Why now?"

"Because you're no longer silent," Damon said. "And whatever this thing is… it thrives on silence."

---

That night, Serena stood in front of the mirror again.

She wore black silk, her hair down, skin bare at the collarbone, trembling fingers holding a candle instead of a flashlight.

Damon had insisted they leave the apartment.

But she refused.

She didn't want to run.

Not now.

She wanted to know the truth.

So she stared.

And stared.

And the longer she did… the more she saw it.

A flicker.

A blink.

Not her own.

The mirror breathed.

She stepped forward.

So did the reflection.

But it wasn't her.

Not anymore.