Replaced by a Better Man

Replaced by a Better Man

Nathan hears it every night -- the bed creaking, the muffled gasps, the proof that his mother has replaced his father. A new man in her house. In her bed. In her life. And Nathan? Nineteen, old enough to understand but too weak to escape it. He's just supposed to pretend. Pretend he doesn't hear. Pretend it doesn't matter. But silence has its limits. And some things aren't meant to be ignored.

Disclaimer:

All characters depicted in this story are adults.

Part 1

The ceiling fan hums softly, a steady rhythm against the thick, oppressive silence. Nathan lies awake in his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, his hands clenched into fists against the sheets. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe too loudly. The walls in this house are thin--always have been. And tonight, like so many other nights, the proof of that is undeniable. A sound drifts through the darkness. Soft at first. A murmur. A whisper. Then a quiet gasp.

He squeezes his eyes shut. It's not happening.Not again. The bed creaks. His fingers twitch. His jaw locks. And then--the rhythm starts. A slow, steady cadence, barely perceptible at first, just the gentle rustling of sheets. But it builds. It always builds. Until there's no mistaking it. The muffled sighs. The restrained moans. The shift of bodies, the heat of something he shouldn't be aware of.

Nathan turns onto his side, stuffing his face into his pillow. He could get up. Walk out of his room. Slam the door. Make a noise--any noise--so she'd know he hears. But he won't. He never does. Because this is the rule, the silent agreement between them: We don't talk about it.

She never asks why he looks exhausted in the mornings. He never tells her why. The next day, the kitchen smells of coffee and toasted bread. The sun spills through the windows, painting the room in soft gold. His mother stands by the counter, pouring herself a cup of coffee, her dark, black hair still damp from the shower. She looks untouched. Unbothered. As if the night before never happened. As if she didn't come undone behind the too-thin walls of this house. Nathan watches her from his seat at the table, his fingers wrapped around a mug he hasn't touched yet. She glances at him, her blue eyes sharp, observant.

"Did you sleep well?" He tightens his grip on the mug. A beat of silence stretches between them. Then he shrugs. "Yeah." She nods, bringing the coffee to her lips, her expression unreadable. And just like that, it's over. The conversation that never really started. Because they don't talk about it. They never do.

Part 2

James walks in like he owns the place. Nathan doesn't look up at first. He doesn't need to. He can already picture it--the lazy confidence in his stride, the way he moves like he belongs here, like there's no question about his place in this house, in this kitchen, in her life. The scent of aftershave lingers in the air. Fresh, clean. Like he just stepped out of the shower. Nathan finally lifts his gaze and immediately regrets it. James is wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging gray boxers, his toned chest bare, his stomach a tight expanse of muscle. Too casual. Too comfortable. Like a man who woke up exactly where he was meant to be. And worse --so much fucking worse-- the bulge.

Nathan tries not to notice it. Fails instantly. It's impossible not to see it. The fabric of the boxers stretches, barely containing whatever the hell is beneath it. A sickening pulse of memory floods his brain.

Last night. The sounds. The way the bed had creaked. The low, deep groans. His mother's voice breaking apart in a way he was never supposed to hear.

His stomach churns. James leans down, pressing a slow kiss to Bethany's lips, right there in front of him, one hand resting lazily on her hip. She hums against his mouth, her fingers brushing over his bare chest. The intimacy of it makes Nathan's skin crawl. She's his mother. James pulls away, stretching his arms, completely unbothered by the fact that he's standing there, half-naked, in front of her son. If anything, there's a flicker of amusement in his expression when his gaze slides to Nathan.

"Morning," James says, his voice low, still rough with sleep. Nathan forces himself to nod. Forces himself not to let his gaze flicker downward.

His grip tightens around his coffee mug. "Didn't know you were up so early," Bethany murmurs, brushing a hand through her dark hair. James smirks, rubbing at his jaw. "Didn't get much sleep." Nathan feels his breath lock in his throat. He shouldn't react. Shouldn't give this man anything. But James is watching him. Watching his expression, the way his shoulders tense.

Like he knows. Like he fucking enjoys it.

Bethany chuckles, completely unaware - or pretending to be. "Coffee's fresh." James grabs a cup from the cabinet, pouring himself some like he's lived here for years. "Thanks, babe."

Nathan swallows down the nausea creeping up his throat. He should leave. Get the fuck out of this kitchen, out of this house, away from the suffocating presence of this man.

Part 3

The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke clings to the walls, sinking into the worn-out couch Nathan is slouched on. His fingers tighten around the neck of his bottle, condensation dripping onto his jeans. The game plays on the small TV, the low hum of commentary filling the space between them, but he barely registers any of it.

His father -- Richard -- sits across from him, eyes fixed on the screen, but Nathan knows he isn't really watching either. He just doesn't want to talk. Fine. Neither does Nathan. But silence has never been a safe place in this family.

And just like that, it pulls him back. The weight in the air, the tension coiled so tight it could snap. The sharp scent of something burned in the kitchen, dinner abandoned. The way his mother's voice had sliced through the house, seething, spitting venom at the man now sitting across from him.

"Jesus, Richard, do you even hear yourself? Do you have any idea how fucking pathetic you sound?"

Nathan blinks hard, shakes his head slightly, but the memory won't loosen its grip. It sinks its claws in, drags him under.

"I gave you everything, Bethany." His father's voice, raw, broken in a way that had made Nathan's stomach churn.

"Everything?" His mother had laughed, but it hadn't been real. It had been cold. Ugly. "You think you gave me everything?"

Richard had said something after that, something too quiet to hear, but whatever it was had set her off. "Oh, please. I was faking it for years."

"You never satisfied me, Richard. Never."

He blinks back to the present, fingers flexing around the bottle. His father still isn't looking at him. And Nathan still doesn't know what the hell to say. Richard exhales slowly, rubbing his palm against his jeans, like he's trying to warm them, or maybe just giving himself something to do. The game flickers on the screen, the low buzz of the commentators filling the silence between them. But it's thin, fragile, like a weak patch over a gaping wound. His father clears his throat. "So... how's home?"

Nathan's grip tightens around his beer bottle. What the fuck is he supposed to say? That his former home - the one his father used to live in, the one where Nathan grew up, the one where his mother used to bake cookies and hum old songs under her breath--has turned into something else entirely?

That it's just a house now? That every night, when the walls start shaking and the headboard starts knocking and his mother starts moaning, he lays in bed, fists clenched, trying not to listen, trying not to hear the man she left his father for ruining her in ways he never should have to think about?

Nathan keeps his gaze locked on the TV, forcing a shrug. "It's fine."

Richard nods, but it's slow. Thoughtful. "Yeah?"

Nathan takes a long sip of beer, as if that might drown out the memories, the noises still fresh in his fucking head. "Yeah."

Richard hesitates. He's not stupid. He knows when someone's lying to him. He used to be a lawyer before he quit everything, before Bethany stripped him down to a man who wears the same hoodie three days in a row and lives in a shoebox apartment.

"James treating her well?"

Nathan almost laughs. Almost. Yeah. James is treating her, all right. To long, drawn-out nights. To headboard-thudding, mattress-squeaking, sheet-clutching nights. To sounds Nathan will never be able to erase from his skull, no matter how hard he tries. But instead of saying any of that, he just shrugs again. "Guess so."

Richard exhales, rubbing his face. "Look, I know this is weird. And I know I'm probably the last person you wanna talk to about it, but... you can. If you need to."Nathan stares at the TV, his jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Talk? Talk about what? About the way his mother used to fight with Richard over how he wasn't enough? About the way she used to rip into him, tearing him down piece by piece, telling him how she was never satisfied? About how James seems to have no fucking problem satisfying her, night after night, loud enough for the whole damn house to hear? Talk about how Nathan lies there, gripping his sheets, counting the seconds between each headboard slam, wondering when the hell this became his life? Talk about how sometimes--just sometimes--he catches James looking at him in the morning, that smug little smirk in place, like he knows Nathan heard everything?

His father watches him carefully, waiting for an answer. Nathan forces himself to breathe, forces his voice into something steady. "There's nothing to talk about."

Richard hesitates, but eventually nods, taking a slow sip of beer. They both turn back to the game. Neither of them say anything else. Because some things you just don't fucking talk about.

The bathroom light flickers when Nathan switches it on, buzzing faintly like everything else in this cramped, lifeless apartment. The tiles under his feet are cold, cracked in the corners. The mirror is spotted with dried water stains. The sink drips. The kind of place a man ends up in when everything falls apart, and he doesn't have the energy to put himself back together.

Nathan splashes water on his face, gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles white. His reflection stares back at him, tired eyes shadowed with something too heavy for his age. He looks down. Looks away. Doesn't want to see himself right now. When he steps back into the hallway, the door to Richard's bedroom is cracked open.

He doesn't mean to look. He does anyway. It's small. Pathetic. A twin-sized bed shoved into the corner, unmade, covers crumpled. No headboard. No signs of life, really. A pile of laundry in the corner. An old dresser with a missing knob. And then--on the nightstand. A roll of toilet paper. Nathan stares at it. Feels something twist deep in his gut. He knows what it's for. Of course, he fucking does. And God, he wishes he didn't. There's a sudden rush of emotions, all tangled, all conflicting, all choking him at once. Pity. Shame. And something darker. Something colder.

Because Richard used to be a husband. A father. A man who had a home, a wife, a son. A man who used to come home to a woman, to warmth, to touch, to connection. Now he has a twin bed and a fucking roll of toilet paper on his nightstand. Now he's just a man alone. Nathan swallows, his throat tight. And yet, beneath all of that tangled, suffocating emotion, something ugly surfaces. Something he doesn't want to acknowledge but can't stop from forming.

A single word. Loser.

His stomach turns instantly. He hates himself for thinking it. But he does. Because he sees too much of himself in his father. A man who was discarded, replaced, no longer needed. Nathan isn't a husband. Isn't a father. But he is a son who doesn't belong in his own house. A son who lies in his bed at night, listening to his mother be fucked open by the man who replaced his father. A son who is tolerated in that house, not wanted. He forces himself to look away. Steps back. Shuts the bathroom door.

When he comes out, Richard is in the kitchen, rinsing out his beer bottle, moving slow like everything is an effort. Nathan feels his throat tighten again. "I should go," he says, voice flat. Richard turns, drying his hands on his jeans, nodding. "Yeah. Alright."

There's a beat. Nathan waits for something. A reason to stay. A reason not to walk out of this sad little apartment and never come back. But Richard just looks at him, tired, resigned. Nathan exhales sharply. "See you."

"Yeah," Richard says. "See you!."

And then Nathan is gone. Out the door, out into the cold, out into the night. Feeling heavier than when he walked in.

Part 4

The house is dimly lit when Nathan steps inside, the faint glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the walls. The air feels thick, like something lingers in it, something unspoken. Something wrong. James is sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, his legs spread in that casual, territorial way he always sits - like he owns the fucking place. Like he belongs here more than Nathan does. Nathan clenches his jaw.

Fuck that. He's still here. He still lives here.

And maybe it's the beer sitting hot in his stomach, maybe it's the leftover frustration from his father's sad little apartment, or maybe it's just the fact that he's so fucking tired of being the quiet, passive presence in his own house. But he doesn't go upstairs. Instead, he strides into the living room and sits down. Right there. On the other side of the couch.

James barely glances at him, just tips his beer bottle up, taking a long, slow sip. Nathan watches the way his throat moves. The way he exhales after, completely unbothered, completely in control.

"Didn't think you'd be out this late," James says, voice lazy, smooth, almost amused. Nathan shrugs, reaching for one of the unopened beers on the table. He doesn't ask if it's James's. He doesn't fucking care. He twists the cap off, takes a swig. The bitterness sits heavy on his tongue, but he swallows it down like it's nothing.

James glances at him then, brief but knowing. "Where were you?"

Nathan tilts his head back against the couch. "With my dad."

And there--there it is.The flicker of amusement. The faintest tug at the corner of James's mouth. Like the mere mention of Richard is funny to him. Like it's a goddamn joke. Nathan's fingers tighten around the bottle. He wants to punch that expression off James's face. Wants to knock that smug little smirk straight out of his fucking mouth. But instead, he just takes another sip of beer.

James doesn't say anything else. Just leans back into the couch, stretching his arms above his head, his shirt riding up just a little, exposing a sliver of his toned stomach. Unbothered. Relaxed. Smug. Nathan swallows hard. Feels the rage curling hot and tight in his gut.

James doesn't need to say anything. His entire existence says it for him.

I won.

I took everything from your father.

I took your mother.

I took this house.

I took your fucking place.

Nathan grips his bottle so tightly his knuckles go white. Then, finally, James exhales, stretching his arms one last time before pushing himself up from the couch. "Alright," he murmurs, voice low, deep, dragging like it's laced with something just a little too fucking smug. He rolls his shoulders, tips back the last of his beer, and glances down at Nathan. "I'm heading to bed."

Nathan doesn't move. Just watches him. Watches the way he strolls toward the hallway, bare feet soundless against the hardwood. Watches the way he disappears around the corner, heading for her room. His mother's room.

Nathan grits his teeth, his pulse pounding in his skull, hot and tight and fucking unbearable. James doesn't say goodnight. He doesn't have to. Nathan already knows exactly what the next few hours will sound like. He closes his eyes, head falling back against the couch, and exhales through his nose.

Yeah.

Right to her.

Right to her bed.

Right to fucking her senseless while Nathan lies awake and listens.

Part 5

Nathan pops the cap off another beer, letting it clatter onto the table. His fingers feel numb around the bottle, the condensation slick against his palm. He takes a slow sip, staring at the muted TV, not really watching, not really thinking. He tells himself he's just sitting here because he's not tired yet. Because the beer tastes better down here than it does in his room. Because the couch is more comfortable than the bed that feels less and less like his every night.

But the minutes pass. And pass. And still--nothing. No faint creak of bedsprings. No soft, breathy sighs. No rhythmic knocking against the wall that sends heat and rage pulsing through his veins in equal fucking measure.Tonight, there's nothing.

Nathan's grip tightens around the bottle. Good. That's good. Right? The alcohol sits thick in his blood, weighing him down, making his limbs slow, making his thoughts not quite his own.If it's good--if he's glad--then why is he still sitting here?

Why hasn't he gone to bed? Why is he waiting? A muscle in his jaw twitches. Maybe he's just drunk. Maybe that's all it is. Maybe it's just the routine of it, the twisted fucking habit that's formed, the way he's conditioned to brace himself, to anticipate it, to feel that awful, acidic mix of nausea and something darker curling in his stomach.

A noise.Barely there, almost nothing at all. But it slams into him like a gunshot. Nathan freezes, heart slamming against his ribs. His fingers twitch, a sudden electric current snapping through his spine. His breathing slows. His ears strain. Another sound. A shift. Barely perceptible, but his body knows.

He knows. The beer bottle sits untouched in his grip now, the alcohol burning through him, making him too aware of everything--his pulse, the heat creeping up his neck, the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his body betrays him.

Fuck. Not now. Not like this. But his blood is thick, heavy, slow. His skin is too tight. His breath is too shallow. And his thoughts - His thoughts are the worst part of all.

Part 6

The air is thick with heat and the faint scent of sweat, mingling with the perfume still clinging to her skin. Bethany exhales shakily, her chest rising and falling in uneven, languid waves as she stretches her arms above her head, letting the last tremors of pleasure hum through her body. Her legs feel weak, her thighs still trembling, the imprint of James' hands burning against her skin.

His breath is warm against her neck, his lips ghosting over her collarbone before he finally pulls away, collapsing beside her with a satisfied groan. For a long moment, neither of them speak. The room is dimly lit, the sheets a tangled mess beneath them, the heat of their bodies still radiating in the space between them. Bethany smirks lazily, turning onto her side, tracing a slow, absentminded circle over James' bare chest. "You seem... extra eager tonight."

James chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head. "Missed you today." She raises a brow. "Oh? You see me every damn day." "Doesn't mean I don't miss you."

Her smirk widens, but she doesn't say anything. Just lets her fingers trail lower, over the dips and ridges of his stomach, teasing, lingering. James catches her wrist, laughing low. "If you start that again, you're not leaving this bed for a while."

She bites her lip, grinning, before finally rolling onto her back, staring at the ceiling, her body still buzzing, still warm. She feels good. Sated. James presses a lazy kiss to her shoulder before sitting up. "Want anything?"

Bethany shakes her head, stretching once more before slipping out of bed. "I'm getting some water." She pulls on her robe, loosely tying the sash as she pads barefoot through the hallway, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat still clinging to her skin. The house is quiet, the TV in the living room still on, the glow casting flickering shadows against the walls. Bethany steps into the kitchen, opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, unscrews the cap. As she takes a slow sip, her gaze flickers toward the couch.