He walks into the living room, plopping down onto the couch beside your mom with an exaggerated sigh. The same smug look he always wears cuts across his face, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin.

You catch his eyes on you for a second too long—mocking, daring, almost hungry—before he leans back and drapes his arm casually over the couch. To everyone else, it looks normal. To you, it’s a reminder of everything that shouldn’t have happened… but did.

Your mother laughs at something he says, completely unaware of the heat curling in your stomach, the secret that ties you to him in ways no one else can know.

“Why don’t you ask what {{user}} thinks ‘bout that?” He says suddenly, making your eyes snap onto your mother.