Somno Stepdad's Lactation Obsession (Stepdad's Sleep-Play #5)

1. Hallie

HALLIE

The front door clicks shut before I even hear the footsteps. My mother's purse swings from her shoulder, the strap catching the light just right as she adjusts it, her keys jingling like wind chimes in a storm.

She doesn't turn. Doesn't call out.

Just slips out like she's done every day this past week, her heels clicking against the porch steps in a rhythm that's starting to sound like a countdown.

I exhale through my nose, fingers curling into the edge of the kitchen counter. The scent of burnt coffee lingers in the air, bitter and stale, just like the silence she leaves behind.

My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth, tasting the metallic tang of stress. It's been building for days now, coiling tight in my gut every time she walks out without a word, every time I read a note that says 'Gone for a bit' in her looping, careless script.

A sharp ache blooms behind my ribs. I press my palm there, as if I can push it back down, but it only spreads, warm and insistent. My fingers tremble as I lift the hem of my shirt, peeling it away from my skin. The fabric sticks, damp and clinging, and I don't need to look to know what I'll find.

Two dark, wet circles blooming across the thin cotton of my bra, the edges spreading like ink on paper.

Shame floods my cheeks, hot and prickling. I yank my shirt back down, but the damage is done. The evidence is there, mocking me. My body, betraying me in ways I don't understand.

It started a few days ago… a tenderness in my chest, a fullness that wasn't there before. Then the leaks. Small at first, just a drop or two when the stress clawed at my throat.

Now it's worse.

Now it's constant, a slow, humiliating drip that leaves me sticky and sore.

I got it checked, of course. "Stress-induced lactation," the doctor had said. "Your cortisol levels are through the roof. Your body thinks it's postpartum."

There was nothing I could do but wait it out… and prevent anyone else from seeing me like this. I grab a dish towel from the counter, pressing it against my chest like it'll do anything.

It doesn't. The fabric soaks through in seconds, the wetness spreading onto my skin, reminding me of how wrong this is. How broken I must be.

The dish towel clings to my skin, damp and useless, as I freeze halfway up the stairs. My grip on the banister turns white-knuckled, the wood biting into my palm.

Then I hear the door open.

It's my stepfather.

Heath Caldwell.

His six-foot-six frame fills the doorway like he was carved to fit it, his presence swallowing the air from the room.

His piercing steel blue eyes cut through the air, sharp and assessing, missing nothing.

Not the way my breath catches, not the way my fingers dig into the banister like it's the only thing keeping me upright.

The salt-and-pepper of his short, upward-styled hair glints under the light, and his neatly trimmed beard does nothing to soften the hard line of his jaw. If anything, it makes him look more dangerous, like a man who's spent a lifetime deciding who lives and who doesn't.

He's forty-one years old but doesn't look like it. The late afternoon light slants across his broad shoulders, stretching the fabric of his charcoal button-down until it strains against the muscle beneath.

His tattoos peek from beneath his rolled sleeves, dark and intricate, telling stories I've never heard about.

The calloused hands that built an empire from nothing flex at his sides, rough and capable.

They could probably snap a two-by-four in half but also cradle something fragile without breaking it.

My pulse stutters, then races, heat flooding my cheeks as I remember the way those hands felt on my waist last week, firm, unyielding, when I almost fell from the stairs. It's ridiculous, this reaction.

Three years ago, I stood in this same doorway, my fingers trembling around a glass of lemonade I'd made just for him. Eighteen, wide-eyed, and stupid enough to think attraction like that could fade.

The way his gaze lingered—just a second too long—sent heat crawling up my neck. I told myself it was a fluke. A mistake. That a man like him wouldn't look twice at a girl like me.

But here I am, still looking. Still burning.

He's not mine to want. But the person who gets to sleep with him every night hasn't been here. It's as if she looks at him like he's just another chore on her to-do list.

That's another reason I'm so stressed about this.

Should I tell him? The question coils in my throat, thick and suffocating. He deserves to know what's happening but the words stick like tar. It's not my marriage to wreck, not my place to light the fuse on something that'll burn us all.

The twist in my chest sharpens, a knife between my ribs.

I don't know who I'm angrier at—her, for treating him like an obligation, or myself, for giving a damn when I know better.

For standing here, heart pounding, while my body betrays me all over again.

The dampness seeps through the dish towel, a slow, humiliating reminder of how little control I have.

Over anything.

Heath heads toward the stairs, and I get a whiff of the scent of his cologne—cedar and leather, warm and undeniably him.

My fingers tighten around the damp dish towel, knuckles whitening as I twist it between my palms. The fabric's already soaked through, but I keep wringing it anyway, like I can squeeze the truth out of my own skin.

Heath pauses beside me, close enough that the heat of his body seeps into my side, close enough that I catch the faintest shift in his stance when he exhales. His tailored slacks whisper against his thigh as he slips a hand into his pocket, the movement slow, deliberate.

"What are you doing standing there with a dish towel?

" His voice is low, rough around the edges, the kind of tone that doesn't ask so much as it notices.

Those steel blue eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unreadable, and for a second, I swear he sees right through the lie before it even leaves my lips.

"Just grabbing something upstairs." The words come out too quick, too bright, and I force my lips into something that's supposed to be a smile. It feels more like a grimace. "But I forgot what."

His gaze doesn't waver. Doesn't soften. Just stays, heavy and knowing, like he's waiting for me to crack.

My pulse thrums in my throat, loud enough that I'm sure he can hear it.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until finally, he nods—once, slow—like he's filing the moment away for later.

"They say retracing your steps can help you remember."

"I'll try that." My voice is smaller than I mean it to be.

A corner of his mouth lifts, just enough to make the lines around his eyes crinkle. "I have to go. See you at dinner."

"See you."

He turns toward the front door, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the air, and I watch him go. The click of the latch is final, the silence that follows heavier than before. My shoulders slump forward, the weight of everything pressing down on me like a physical thing.

The images of the past week, of my mother climbing into a different car flashes behind my eyes—her laughter too loud, her dress too short, her hand lingering on the driver's door just a second too long.

Another man. Another night. Another excuse about "networking" or "client dinners" or whatever lie she'll spin when she stumbles in the next morning, smelling like whiskey and someone else's cologne.

Meanwhile, Heath's been here. Fixing the leaky faucet. Carrying in groceries. Asking if I've eaten. Never pushing, never demanding, never treating me like the inconvenience my mother makes me feel like.

And what does he get in return? A woman who can't even look at him without flinching, who treats his kindness like a burden instead of the gift it is.

The guilt coils tighter in my chest, a serpent sinking its teeth into my ribs. I press my palm against the countertop, the cool marble doing nothing to ease the heat crawling up my neck.

Someone has to do something.

If my mother won't see what's right in front of her, if she won't want him…

Then maybe it's time someone else did.

The note is folded into a tight square, the edges crisp and precise. My fingers brush over the paper one last time, testing the weight of the words I've left behind, words I could never say out loud.

I tuck it into the wooden box, its grain rough under my fingertips. The lid slides into place with a soft click, sealing everything inside. My pulse thrums in my throat as I press my palm against the smooth surface, like I can somehow will the contents to make sense to him. To make me make sense.

The hallway stretches long and quiet as I head out of my room, the only sound the distant hum of the fridge from the kitchen. My bare feet pad against the hardwood, each step lighter than the last.

I round the corner and there he is.

Heath just left his study, one arm in his pocket, the other holding his glass of post-dinner whiskey.

The amber liquid catches the light, throwing gold across his knuckles.

His sleeves are still rolled up, the tattoos on his forearms shifting with the movement of his wrist, dark ink against skin.

He stills when he sees me, the glass pausing midair, his gaze sharpening like a blade drawn from its sheath.

"Hallie." My name rolls off his tongue, rough and low, the kind of sound that makes my stomach clench. He doesn't move, doesn't blink, just watches as I freeze in the hallway, the box suddenly heavy in my hands. "Where are you off to?"

I swallow. "I wanted to talk to you."

A beat of silence. Then, slow and deliberate, he sets the glass down on the console table along the. hallway The clink of crystal against wood is too loud in the quiet. His eyes never leave mine as he straightens. The air between us thickens, charged with something I can't name.

"What is?—"

His gaze drops.

Lower.

Lower still.

My breath hitches.

I look down, and the front of my thin cotton tank top is damp, two dark, spreading circles on my chest. The fabric clings, betraying every curve, every shameful detail. Heat floods my face, neck and chest. My fingers tighten around the box until the edges dig into my palms.

"Hallie." His voice is different now. Deeper. Darker. The kind of tone that doesn't ask questions, it demands answers.

He takes a step forward, then another, his shoes eating up the distance between us until he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that I can see the way his pupils dilate, swallowing the steel blue of his irises.

I take a step back. Then another. My shoulder blades hit the wall, the cool plaster doing nothing to ease the fire licking up my spine.

His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist before I can bolt. His grip isn't tight, just firm. Unyielding. "Who the hell knocked you up?"

The words hit like a slap. My head jerks up, eyes wide. "What? No… I'm not?—"

"Then what the fuck is this?" His free hand hovers near my chest, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his palm like a brand. His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath his beard. "You're lactating, Hallie. That doesn't just happen."

I open my mouth. Close it. My throat is dry, my tongue thick and useless. The truth claws at the back of my throat, but the words won't come.

Stress. My mother. You. None of them sound right. None of them make sense.

His grip on my wrist loosens, but he doesn't let go. Instead, his thumb brushes over my pulse point, slow and deliberate, like he's counting the frantic beats of my heart. "Talk to me, Hal."

The nickname sends a jolt through me, sharp and electric. My breath stutters, my nipples tightening beneath the damp fabric, betraying me all over again. I squeeze my eyes shut, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not pregnant. I swear."

A low, rough sound rumbles in his chest. Not quite a growl. Not quite a sigh. Something in between. His fingers flex around my wrist, then release, only to slide up my arm, slow and possessive, like he's memorizing the shape of me. His touch is fire and ice, burning and soothing all at once.

"Then what is it?" His voice is softer now, but no less dangerous. "Tell me."

I shake my head, my hair brushing against the wall. "I can't."

His hand pauses at the crook of my elbow, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin there. "Hallie."

The way he says my name—like a warning—makes my knees weak. I swallow hard, my fingers trembling around the box. "The doctor said it's stress-induced lactation."

His thumb stills against my skin. "How do you make it stop?"

My teeth sink into my lower lip. "It just... goes away. Eventually." I exhale, sharp and shaky. "But that's not what I came to talk about."

I thrust the box toward him. The wood is smooth under my fingers, the weight of it suddenly unbearable.

He doesn't take it. Just stares at me, his gaze heavy, unreadable. The air between us crackles, thick with something I can't name. My arm trembles, the box feeling like it's made of lead.

"Just… open it later," I whisper.

His gaze drops to the wooden box in my hands, then back to my face. His expression is unreadable. "What's in it?"

"You'll see."

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just looks at me, his gaze heavy and searching, like he's trying to peel back my skin and see the truth beneath. The silence stretches, taut and suffocating, until finally, he exhales through his nose and holds out his hand.

I place the box in his palm.

His fingers close around it, rough and calloused, swallowing the wood whole. For a second, I think he's going to press me further. Demand more. But then he steps back, the space between us suddenly vast and cold.

"Go to bed, Hallie." His voice is low, controlled. "We'll talk in the morning."

I turn and walk away, my bare feet silent against the hardwood, my heart pounding in my ears.

We'll talk in the morning.

But, hopefully, he might still be seeing me tonight.