Thursday afternoon. Dad and Jordan finalize the church project in the dining room. I listen from the kitchen. They've been at this for hours.
My heart already races before I even move. Before I make the decision. Before I cross that threshold with coffee and recklessness and the need to feel powerful in the only way left to me.
I pour two cups. Add cream to Dad's. Black for Jordan. Arrange them on a tray with practiced precision.
"Thought you might need refills."
Dad looks up. Smiles. "Thank you, sweetheart. Perfect timing."
I set his cup down first. Then cross to Jordan's side. His eyes meet mine briefly. A warning flickers there. Or maybe recognition.
He knows I'm dangerous.
I set his cup down. Lean over Dad's shoulder to examine the documents spread before him.
"This looks complicated."
"Just organizational charts." Dad points to a flowchart. "Showing how the program structure would work. Age groups, activity tracks, volunteer coordination."
"It's impressive." I drop my hand below the table. Find Jordan's thigh. "You're really creating something meaningful."
Jordan goes absolutely rigid. Every muscle locks. But he doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. Just sits there with his jaw tensing incrementally as my fingers trace slow patterns against denim.
"That's the goal." Dad clicks through slides. "Sustainable impact."
"How many kids would it serve?" My voice stays steady while my pulse hammers. While my fingers climb higher. While Jordan's breathing changes in ways only I can hear.
"Initially? About fifty. But we'd scale up over three years." Dad leans back. "Jordan, what do you think about the volunteer training timeline?"
"Aggressive but doable." Jordan's voice strains. 'If we front-load recruitment."
My hand moves higher still. The power makes me dizzy. Dad three feet away discussing budgets while Jordan's entire body fights to stay still. To not react. To not give us away.
"Maya, what do you think?" Dad looks at me. "You've done volunteer work. Is eight hours of training enough?"
"Probably." I press just slightly. Watch Jordan's knuckles go white on his pen. "Depends on the complexity of the role."
"Good point." Dad turns back to the screen. "We should tier it. Basic versus advanced tracks."
Jordan shifts slightly. Not away. Just adjusting. His thigh presses back against my palm and heat floods through me.
This is insane. We're insane.
I lean closer to examine a chart. My breath ghosts across Jordan's neck. He doesn't move but I see his pulse jump.
"The timeline makes sense." I trace my finger along the paper. Below the table, my other hand traces patterns that make Jordan's breathing go shallow. "When would you launch?"
"September. Start of school year." Dad's phone buzzes. "Hold that thought. I need to take this."
He stands. Walks into the kitchen. His voice fades as he talks to whoever called.
The second we're alone, Jordan's hand shoots out. Grips my wrist. Hard enough to stop me. Not hard enough to hurt.
He leans close. His mouth nearly touches my ear.
"You're playing with fire."
His voice is rough. Dangerous. Everything in me responds to that edge.
I turn my head. Just enough. Our mouths are inches apart.
"Maybe I want to burn."
Something dark and hungry moves through his eyes. His grip tightens on my wrist. For a heartbeat I think he's going to kiss me right here. Right now. Damn the consequences.
Then Dad's voice carries from the kitchen. Getting closer.
Jordan releases me. I straighten. Put three feet of space between us before Dad rounds the corner.
"Sorry about that. Where were we?"
"Timeline." My voice is steadier than it should be. "You were explaining the September launch."
"Right." Dad sits. Pulls the laptop closer. "Jordan, can you walk Maya through the volunteer structure? She might have insights we're missing."
"Of course." Jordan doesn't look at me. His voice is professionally distant. Like the last five minutes didn't happen. "The model uses a mentorship approach. Older volunteers paired with younger participants."
I watch him explain. Watch him perform normalcy. His hands are steady on the keyboard. His voice measured. But I saw what just happened. Felt it.
He won't look at me.
For the next thirty minutes, they discuss logistics. I stand there playing the interested daughter. Asking occasional questions. Pretending my skin isn't electric. Pretending I can't still feel the heat of Jordan's thigh under my palm.
Finally, Dad closes the laptop. "I think we're done for today. Good progress."
"Agreed." Jordan starts gathering papers. "I'll draft the formal proposal tonight."
"Perfect." Dad stands, stretches. "Maya, thanks for the coffee."
"Anytime."
I turn to leave. Need air. Need space. Need to process what just happened.
Dad's voice stops me at the doorway.
"You know, Jordan, I have to say something." His tone shifts. Warmer. More personal. "You've been a good influence on Maya."
I freeze.
"She seems more settled lately. More content with her path." Dad claps Jordan's shoulder. "Whatever you've said to her about accepting God's plan, about trusting the process. It's working. She's maturing."
The irony devastates.
"I'm glad I could help." Jordan's voice is carefully neutral. But I hear the strain underneath.
"You're a good man." Dad says it with total conviction. "I'm grateful to have you in our lives. In her life especially."
My nails dig into my palms. The pain grounds me. Keeps me from reacting.
"Thank you, David. That means a lot."
I force myself to walk away. Up the stairs. Into my room. Close the door quietly when I want to slam it.
Behind the wood, I press my hands to my face.
Dad thinks Jordan is guiding me toward acceptance. Toward contentment. Toward the path they've planned.
He has no idea Jordan is the reason I'm burning. The reason I'm unraveling. The reason every rule they've imposed feels like kindling waiting for a match.
More settled. More content.
The words would be funny if they weren't so tragic.
I'm not settled. I'm a bomb with a lit fuse.
And Jordan is the spark they invited into our home.
My phone buzzes. I grab it automatically.
Jordan: That can't happen again.
I stare at the message. My pulse still racing. My body still humming with the power of making him break. Of watching him struggle to stay composed while I touched him with my father right there.
I type back: Yes it can.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Jordan: Maya.
Me: Three weeks until the gala. Until I get the key. Until I'm free.
The dots pulse for a long time.
Jordan: And then what?
The question sits heavy on the screen.
I don't have an answer.
But I know I want to find out.
Me: Then we figure it out.
No response comes.
I set the phone down. In three weeks, when I get that key, everything is going to combust.
I just have to make sure I'm still standing when the smoke clears.