Rain battered the porch in relentless sheets, each gust turning the world past the steps into a shifting curtain of water. She stood under the porch light, hair slicked down and dripping against her cheeks, water running along her jaw and soaking into the collar of her white top. The fabric clung to her skin, turned almost transparent by the downpour, her bra visible beneath, straps against her shoulders. Short denim shorts hugged her hips, the edges dark with rain, beads of water sliding down her bare thighs. She shivered, arms crossed for warmth, or maybe just to hold herself together.

She raised a fist and knocked, the sound barely audible over the constant rush of the storm. The wind picked up and blew a face full of rain against her, but she didn’t flinch. She waited, unmoving, shivering and soaking wet, and then knocked again, three hard raps on the door.

The man who opened the door looked like he hadn’t slept, the blue of his eyes clouded and distant, jaw rough with stubble. His hair stuck up at odd angles, as if he’d been dragging his hands through it all night. The porch light caught the tension in his face, his mouth pulled tight as he stared at her in disbelief.

“You ... You shouldn’t be here.” His voice shook, caught somewhere between fear and guilt. His hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles tense. “Not after what happened.”

She stayed firm in place on the wet, wooden porch. Rainwater was streaming down her legs, eyes fixed on him.

“You raped me,” she said, and the words fell heavy and sharp, cutting through the hiss of the rain.

For a moment, neither of them breathed. The rain hammered the porch roof, water trickling in cold rivulets down her spine. Her words seemed to freeze the air between them, a truth neither could step around.

“You did your time, and that doesn’t erase it.” She hugged herself tighter, her voice steady, even as her body shook. “But I’m not here for vengeance. I just want to talk.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. A tremor passed through him, as if the storm might drag the whole house into the dark. He stepped back, uncertain, letting the door swing open wider. The hallway behind him was dim, shadows trailing along the peeling wallpaper, the faint smell of stale coffee and dust filling her nose. A familiar smell.

“Come in,” he finally said, the words barely above a whisper.

She lingered on the threshold, glancing back into the storm. The street was empty, water gushing down the gutters and pooling in the cracks of the sidewalk. A streetlamp flickered across the way, painting the little it could reach in amber light. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she should turn around, let the rain swallow her whole, and pretend she’d never come. Doubt twisted in her stomach, cold and sharp. Was this the right thing to do? She wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d never be sure.

But she didn’t let herself hesitate any longer. With a slow breath, she stepped inside, brushing past him. The warmth of the house pressed against her rain-chilled skin. She slipped her flip flops off, letting them sit by the door. Barefoot now, she glanced down, watching little puddles form around her toes.

“My clothes are soaked,” she said quietly, voice almost apologetic. Droplets slid from her hair, dripping onto her shirt and running down the line of her bra.

He slowly closed the door, checking twice to make sure it stayed unlocked. He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his sweatpants. He looked at her, he really looked at her. As if seeing her for the first time all over again. She could see the hesitation, the guilt, the confusion flickering across his face. He seemed caught between wanting to help and not knowing how, as if any gesture might cross an invisible line neither of them could define.

“Do you have a dryer?” she asked nervously, as if unsure whether it was okay to need something so ordinary in a moment so fragile. She wrapped her arms around herself again, hugging her waist, goosebumps rising along her arms.

He nodded with a sigh. Relieved for the simple request.

“Yeah. It’s ... just downstairs.” He pointed toward a narrow door off the hallway, its paint chipped and handle dull from years of use. “Through there. The basement.”

“Do you mind if I...?” Her eyes flicking from the door to him.

He shook his head, cutting her off.

“Help yourself.” He shifted, stepping back from the entryway, making it clear he had no intention of following her by walking into the living room.

She nodded, her wet hair trailing droplets behind her as she padded across the cold floor. The old door creaked as she pulled it open, a breath of cool air spilling up from below. She paused on the top step, glancing back at him, but he was already looking away, gaze fixed on some distant place past the front window. Gathering herself, she started down the steps alone, bare feet chilled on the hard surface. The door swung closed behind her with a hollow click, the house settling back into silence as she disappeared into the shadows below.

The basement light flickered as she found the switch. Down here, the world felt even quieter, insulated from the rain, the only sound was the distant rumble of thunder. The concrete floor was cold beneath her bare feet, sending a sharp chill up her spine as she descended the last few steps. For a second she just stood there, breath held tight in her chest, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness.

She paused as she walked towards the edge of a studio setup. A mattress at the center and a camera pointed towards it. Two studio lights were pointed towards the setup, ensuring everything that happened there was lit perfectly.

This was the room. This was the bed.

She remembered the roughness of his hands, the way he’d pushed her down, her body pinned to that very mattress. The lights had burned hot overhead, chasing away every shadow, leaving her nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide. His voice was cold, commanding, and echoed in her ears even now. She remembered the pain, the way her body had fought and then gone numb. The camera’s shutter had clicked, again and again, capturing her while she was exposed, when she’d had no say, no control. She had been broken in, reduced to being just a hole for him to fuck, something to fill and document.

Standing there now, her body remembered everything. Muscles tensed, breath shallow, her skin crawling with the memories. The sheets had been washed, the lights were off, but nothing could erase what happened here. Nothing could make her forget the feel of his weight, his hands, his cock inside her, forcing her to the edge over and over again until her body had betrayed her, her orgasm wrenched from her by sheer exhaustion.

She let out a sigh and forced herself to keep moving, to step past the bed and the camera, to remind herself that this was a different night, that she had come here on her own terms.

She found the washer and dryer tucked neatly beneath the small window, against the back wall. The space was narrow, a shelf above crowded with detergent bottles and a few faded towels. She glanced at the small window above, rain still streaming down the glass in twisting rivulets.

She peeled off her soaked shirt first, the fabric clinging to her skin before giving way and landing with a wet slap in the empty drum. Her fingers worked the button on her shorts, sliding the denim down her hips, the heavy fabric sticking to her thighs before she stepped out of them, dropping them into the dryer beside her shirt. She reached back and unclasped her bra, slipping it off her shoulders, shivering a little as the air touched her bare breasts, nipples hard from the chill. Last, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, sliding them down and stepping out of them, adding them to the dryer.

She grabbed a towel from the shelf above, quickly drying off her body. After barely being able to dry her hair, she threw the towel in with the rest of her clothes. She then pulled a dryer sheet from the box, closed the door, and hit the start button.

As the machine began to hum, she started walking back to the stairs. She lingered for a moment at the basement door, listening to the low drone of the dryer and the distant patter of rain on the roof that she could once again hear. The cool air clung to her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and legs. She hugged herself, drawing in a breath, before slowly easing the door open.

The hallway beyond was quiet and dim, the hush of the storm outside broken only by the soft creak of the old floor beneath her bare feet. She stepped into the light, feeling strangely weightless, each step a reminder of her vulnerability, the reality of being naked and alone in the home of her rapist.

There was a flickering light coming from the living room, the crackle of a fire. She walked toward it, the wood floor smooth beneath her feet. Her pulse quickened as she reached the archway, stepping into the open space. He was standing at the window once more, looking out at the dark and the rain. Her footsteps were silent as she approached him, stopping at the edge of the living room. She watched him for a moment, her voice catching in her throat, before she spoke.

“Hey,” she said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

He turned, his eyes going wide when he saw her, taking in her nudity, the goosebumps rising along her bare legs and arms, her hair still wet, a droplet trailing along her neck and down the curve of her breast. He was speechless, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing, trying to make sense of the reality of her being here, and the fact that she was naked.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, right?” She gave a weak smile, hugging herself tighter. “Guess there’s not much left for me to hide in this house.”

He swallowed, shame flickering in his eyes, but unable to look away from her body, his shoulders stiff.

“I’ll, uh ... I can get you a towel to cover up?” He offered, voice catching.

“Don’t bother.” She shook her head, her gaze steady. “I think we’re past pretending I need to cover up for your comfort.”

She moved past him, bare feet making almost no sound on the wood as she crossed to the couch by the fire. The warmth hit her skin, coaxing out another shiver, but she didn’t flinch or reach for a blanket. Instead, she settled in, crossing her legs and keeping her arms wrapped around herself, letting him take in her bareness, her vulnerability, the firelight dancing along her skin.

He was silent, but didn’t look away. She could see the conflict, the struggle in his face, torn between staring and trying to avert his eyes. He couldn’t seem to decide where to put his hands, fingers flexing at his sides.