I'm not exactly sure how it started, this strange little weekly ritual between my mother and me. But I know it started innocently enough. Dad worked the night shift on Wednesdays, which meant Mom and I had the house to ourselves.

At first, we just ordered takeout and watched TV, happy to indulge in some guilty pleasures without Dad around to tease us.

But over the past few months, our Wednesday nights had evolved into a whole thing. We'd worked our way through several shows, incorporating little elements from each one into our routine. After binging a few seasons of The Great British Bake Off, we'd added a baking component, with Mom whipping a delicious dessert recipe to enjoy with our shows. During our Jane the Virgin phase, Mom would narrate our evening like the Latin Lover Narrator.

Currently, we were a few episodes into season 2 of Bridgerton. We'd adopted the posh British accents, calling each other Lady Amy and Miss Eva as we obsessed over the romantic entanglements of the characters. It sounds silly but there was something about slipping into this imaginary world with Mom that gave me a giddy thrill. For a few hours, we shed the boring ordinariness of our real lives.

Our Wednesdays had definitely become the highlight of my week...

This particular night was a late one for me. Between band practice and student government after school, it was 7pm by the time I got home. As I walk in the door, I'm greeted by the warmth of the working oven and the smell of something chocolatey emanating from it.

Mom is bustling around the kitchen. "Ah Lady Eva, how was school my dear?" she asks in her mock posh accent.

I smile, taking in her appearance. Even dressed down, my mother manages to look effortlessly beautiful. Her wavy blonde hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and as she turns around and smiles at me, a few strands fall softly around her face.

At forty-five, she could still easily pass for a woman in her mid-thirties. Her skin was smooth and glowing, with only the faintest of laugh lines around her sparkling blue eyes. She had a graceful, slim figure that she maintained through regular jogging and strength training. With me being eighteen now, people often mistake us for sisters when we're out together.

Just the other night she asked me if I was embarrassed when that happened. "Are you kidding? I'll take it as a compliment that people think I'm the sister of an absolute milf!" I joked. Mom smacked my arm, calling me ridiculous as we both cracked up.

I notice she's already changed into her usual Wednesday evening attire: an oversized, grey sweatshirt that hangs loose on her petite frame. The shirt hits mid-thigh, just barely covering her shapely hips and toned legs. It's soft and worn-in, with a faded university logo that I don't recognize. I think she's had that thing since college. I keep meaning to steal it from her, it looks so cozy. But for now, it's become her staple TV-watching uniform.

Remembering my role, I put on my best posh British accent and drape the back of my hand on my forehead, feigning exhaustion. "Oh my heavens, Lady Amy, do not get me started on the travails of the day!"

I kick off my shoes by the door and wriggle my toes, relishing the feeling of my socked feet on the soft carpet.

"Between the dreadfully dull lessons from my teachers and the positively uncouth behavior of the common folk, I am quite exhausted and in need of some reprieve."

I let out an exaggerated sigh as I make my way into the kitchen, shrugging off my backpack next to one of the chairs. "But alas, I am finally home, where I can relax and enjoy some civilized company for a change."

I sneak a peek at the oven, my posh facade breaking for a moment. "Oh dang, is that brownies I spy in there?" I ask in my regular voice.

Mom laughs, "Why yes, Lady Eva, I did bake some brownies for us this evening. I do hope it will lift your spirits after the day's troubles."

She grabs two spoons from the silverware drawer, her breasts swaying slightly under the grey fabric as she maintains her posh accent. "But do tell me more about what vexes you so, dear girl."

I grin, leaning my elbows on the counter, dispensing with the overhead of the accents for a bit. "Oh man...so we have our student council meeting today, right? It's the end of the year so we're going over our budget. Turns out we have a surplus."

"Well, that's not a bad problem to have"

"Sure, it's great. Except Ashley, the class president, wants to use it to throw a big end-of-year bash for the students. The rest of us thought the money would be better spent on buying new books for the library. So we argued about it for like an hour before finally taking a vote, and then, get this, most people sided with Ashley!"

Mom shakes her head as she reaches up to grab two bowls from the cabinet. The fabric pulls up a bit and I catch a glimpse of the backs of her bare legs and the lower curve of her bare bottom, "She's trying to keep her constituents happy" she says, putting the two bowls on the counter, "High school politics. I know it sucks, but it'll prepare ya for the real world."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, I guess. I just wish we could use the money for something more meaningful."

"Well, don't stress about that Ashley crap. Just keep speaking your truth and standing up for what you believe in." She opens the freezer door and the loud hum fills the kitchen.

"Hmm, what do you think? Vanilla or chocolate?" she asks, evaluating the options in the freezer.

"I should think vanilla would be a suitable accompaniment to the brownie treats," I say dramatically as I reach under my school sweater to unclasp my bra. I deftly slip the straps down my arms and pull the bra out through the sleeve of my school sweater before dropping it on the floor next to my backpack.

Mmm that's better, I say as I unconsciously reach under my sweater to rub the skin under my boobs where the underwire had been digging in all day. I can already feel the relief.

"Oh my god, seriously those brownies smell awesome," I ask, catching another whiff from the oven.

"Yeah, it's a new recipe I'm trying from last season's Bake Off. Salted caramel brownies topped with a brown sugar caramel sauce and sea salt."

"Yum," I say as I reach under my skirt and slide my fingers into the sides of my cotton panties. I wiggle them down over my hips, letting them drop to my ankles. Stepping out of them, I kick the panties to the side next to the bra.

Next is my plaid skirt, with its crisply ironed pleats. I fumble a bit with the zipper in the back before it gives way, and the tartan fabric loosens around my waist. I shimmy my hips side to side, allowing the skirt to slide down my legs and onto the growing pile on the floor.

I smooth my hands down the front of my sweater, making sure the hem covers me decently. The navy blue cashmere stops just above mid-thigh, a bit shorter than my usual school outfit.

Like the ritual itself, I'm not sure how this no pants-and-panties part of our tradition started. It must have happened one particularly hot summer day when we were too lazy to put on our full outfits. But at some point, it got enshrined into our routine just like the other parts. We'd never be this informal with anyone else, barely dressed, makeup-free, hair a mess. But with each other, it feels natural. Comfortable even.

At the same time...lately, there has been an edge to our state of undress that I can't quite put my finger on. A subtle excitement in the air.

The cool air raises goosebumps on my bare legs and bottom. There's a buzz in my belly I don't understand. I feel shy, and bold at the same time. Exposed, but safe here in this space we've created.

I don't know if Mom feels it too, this nameless tension. Neither of us acknowledges it. We just carry on every Wednesday night with our silly accents and mindless chatter, as if we aren't practically naked.

As I stand there in just my sweater and socks, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and look at myself appraisingly.

I'm a blend of my parents' looks - I have my dad's thick, dark brown hair that falls in loose waves past my shoulders. But my delicate features and petite, slender build come from Mom's side. She still sometimes calls me her "mini-me" although at 5'6, I'm 3 inches taller than her now.

I run my hands down my sides, over the curves of my hips. Through the soft cashmere of my sweater, I trace my fingers along my flat stomach. I turn to the side, noting how my breasts protrude under the fabric. My legs are smooth and toned from years of dance classes. I lift one foot off the ground, pointing my toes and elongating my leg in the mirror, and sweep my hair over one shoulder, tilting my head to the side, practicing exaggerated poses and expressions. I can't help but giggle at my exaggerated pouty face.

Oh yes Miss Eva, you do look simply gorgeous, I think to myself in an exaggerated snooty inner voice. With your lithe dancer's body and flowing chestnut locks, you put these other unrefined plebeians to shame.

I straighten up and place one hand haughtily on my hip, tossing my hair and narrowing my eyes as I pursed my lips into a judgmental little moue.

The other girls at your school? Positively pedestrian, I sniff disdainfully in my head. Not an ounce of taste or sophistication to be found amongst the hoi polloi at that dreadfully provincial school of yours. But you, dear girl, are destined for greater things.

I catch Mom's eye in the reflection and we both burst out laughing at my over-the-top posturing.

"What in heaven's name are you doing over there, Miss Eva?" Mom asks between giggles.

"Oh nothing, m'lady," I reply lightly with an exaggerated curtsy. "Just entertaining myself while you slave away over there with the brownies."

Mom shakes her head, amused. "Well, feel free to keep me entertained. The adventures of Miss Hoity Toity look positively thrilling."

I notice her eyes flicker down to take in my bare legs and thighs before meeting my gaze again. I feel a subtle thrill rush through me at having her attention on my exposed skin. It makes me suddenly aware of the cool air hitting the bare skin between my legs, and I resist the urge to squeeze my thighs together.

"No sweatshirt today?" she asks casually as she turns around and checks the oven timer. She's referring to the oversized Garfield sweatshirt that I usually wear on our TV nights.

"Oh um, nah, this sweater is so comfy, I figured why not keep it on," I say, self-consciously smoothing my hands down the soft cashmere again.

Mom nods approvingly. "Looks comfy," she says simply, before turning her attention back to the oven.

"Alrighty, the recipe said thirty-five minutes but the oven runs hot so I'm guessing these brownies gotta be close to done," She bends down, opening the oven door. The blast of warm air fills the kitchen with the intoxicating chocolatey aroma.

As she peers inside, the worn grey fabric of her sweatshirt rides up even further, exposing her bare backside. Her cheeks are pale and smooth against the oversized shirt, barely covered now that she's stretched over. I catch a glimpse of the sides of her hips, the curve of her cheeks peeking out as she reaches into the hot oven.

"Ah splendid, I do believe our treats are ready!" Mom says enthusiastically, the sound echoing slightly inside the oven.

As Mom reaches in to pull the hot tray out, she shifts her feet further apart, spreading her legs a bit to brace herself. Her body stretches forward, causing the oversized sweatshirt to ride up even more.

From my spot at the counter, I suddenly have an unobstructed view between her parted thighs.

I feel my face flush hot as my eyes linger for a split second longer than they should. I avert my gaze quickly, but the image is seared into my mind.

As she straightens up and turns around, the sweatshirt falls back into place, once again covering her. She sets the hot pan on the stovetop and blows a strand of loose hair out of her face.

"Whew, hot oven!" she says, fanning herself. Her cheeks and chest are flushed pink from the heat.

I nod, trying to act casual, and ignore a different kind of heat I feel creeping up my neck. "Yeah, you look hot!" I joke lamely. She gives me a look and swats me with the oven mitt as she walks past to grab a spatula.

I clear the mental image from my mind and hop up onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter, my bare legs swinging freely. I love the feeling of the cool air on my thighs each time I kick my socked feet back and forth.

"So, what about you? How was work today?" I ask as Mom drops a hot brownie into each of our bowls. The sweet, chocolaty aroma fills my nose.

"Ugh, more drama," Mom says, rolling her eyes. "Actually pretty similar to your ordeal. The university is trying to take some of our funding away from the lab." She scoops a generous portion of vanilla ice cream on top of each brownie.

"What? Why?"

"The provost thinks the funds would be better used to expand the football program." She punctuates her point by throwing the ice cream scoop into the sink.

"So football is more important than Alzheimers?"

Mom has been studying Alzheimer's disease for over a decade now. As a neuroscientist, she runs a lab at the university and is close to a major breakthrough in understanding the underlying causes.

"Apparently," she replies, annoyance in her voice.

She pushes a bowl and spoon towards me, which I accept eagerly.

I dig my spoon in, scraping up a big scoop of gooey brownie and ice cream, and take a bite. I let out an involuntary moan of pleasure. "Oh my god, this is insane," I mumble through the mouthful.

Mom looks pleased, leaning forward on her elbows across from me at the counter. "Yeah? The brown sugar caramel makes all the difference, right?" I nod vigorously, already going in for another giant spoonful.

"So tell me more about this budget fight. Why can't they just get more funding for football but let you keep what you need for the lab?"

Mom sighs, taking a small bite of her brownie. Even when annoyed she manages to eat daintily.

"I wish it were that simple. But funding is limited so it becomes an either/or situation." She shakes her head in frustration. "The committee that decides these things is run by a bunch of old guys who care more about the football team's ranking than groundbreaking scientific research."

"Fucking sexists," I say I say through a mouthful of brownie.

Mom shoots me a look. I get ready for the "Language young lady!" scolding, but it never comes. Instead, she just smiles, "Yeah. Total fucking sexists."

I love having these types of adult conversations with Mom. A year ago I probably wouldn't have cared at all about her research and budget problems. But it seemed like right around the time I turned eighteen, Mom started confiding in me more, talking to me like a friend instead of just her daughter. We chat about all kinds of things these days - her frustrations at work, my high school drama, even more personal stuff like her feelings about Dad being gone so much for work. I know she gets lonely with him working nights so often.

In turn, I've started opening up to her about things I used to keep private. Just last week, I shyly confessed my crush on Sarah, the pretty blonde junior who plays clarinet in band. I was so nervous telling Mom that I liked a girl, but she just squeezed my hand supportively and said love is love.

"Well, they obviously don't understand how important your work is. Maybe you should organize some kind of demonstration to bring more awareness? I bet a bunch of us students would protest with you, get some signs going."

Mom laughs at my enthusiasm. "I appreciate the support, but this is just normal academia stuff Eves. I've been through this before. I'll twist a few arms, maybe write up a couple grant proposals to make up the difference, and everything will work out."

"Yeah, I know. You got this." I mumble through another delicious mouthful. A bit of melted ice cream dribbles down my chin. Before I can grab a napkin Mom leans over the counter and gently wipes it off with her thumb.

Her face is just inches from mine, and I catch the subtle floral scent of her perfume. Her bright blue eyes lock with mine for a brief second before she casually licks the ice cream off her thumb and sits back down.

I feel my cheeks grow warm and quickly avert my gaze back to my bowl. My heartbeat quickens from the unexpected contact, mild as it was.

Get it together Eva, I silently scold myself. It's just Mom doing her usual Mom stuff. I clear my throat, trying to regain composure. Feeling flustered, I change the subject.

Feeling flustered, I change the subject. "Oh yeah! So speaking of neuroscience," I say, my voice a little higher than normal, "today I was reading an article for my psychology class about oxytocin. It like helps people bond with each other. Apparently, women release a lot of oxytocin when they...um...like orgasm too."

I pause, a little embarrassed that I just threw out that random factoid. Mom looks...