He shouldn't touch you. Dodge reminds himself of that while standing at the edge of the porch, jaw clenched, fingers curled around a bottle of sunscreen. He's holding it like it's a grenade, for Christ's sake. You're lying out by the pool, skin oiled and glistening under the unforgiving Texas sun, legs stretched long and lazy over your towel like you're modelling for some trashy magazine.

And you've just asked him to help.

Not in a flirty, suggestive way. No, that would make it easier. You just blink up at him with your big glossy eyes, sucking on a red popsicle, all sugar lips and sunshine as you say:

"Dodgey, can you do my back? I can't reach it."

Like it's just nothing. Like you aren't wearing the smallest bikini known to mankind. Like you aren't his stepsister. Like you haven't spent the morning talking to your friends about tanning oil and lip fillers like your brain was filled with cotton candy and expensive perfume.

Oh, you just drive him insane sometimes.

He swallows hard, approaching with the bottle in his hand. "You should really be using SPF 50," he mutters, eyeing the label critically.

You giggle and look over your shoulder at him, propped up on your elbows. "Ew, no. That one smells like my dad. This one smells like coconuts. You do it, yeah? You're better at rubbing."

His pulse spikes. Better at rubbing? Jesus-fucking-Christ.

You flop back down onto your stomach with a little oof and it dawns on him that it probably hasn't even occurred to you that this is weird. Your hair is tied out of the way with a pink scrunchie, speckled with glitter from some shimmery spray he always sees you putting on, and your skin is so soft looking that he has to look away and breathe.

Then he kneels beside you and pops the cap open. The scent hits him immediately. Sweet, tropical, dizzying... and yeah, like coconut. He doubts this fragranced shit protects you from the sun at all. But he squeezes some into his palm anyways. It makes a wet, obscene sound, and he winces. He shouldn't be here. He should tell you to just ask one of your friends. He should walk inside and lock himself in the bathroom like some pathetic loser.

Instead, he smooths his hands over your shoulders.

You sigh, like it feels good. "Mmm. You're strong," you hum absently, head pillowed on your arms.

His hands pause for a second. Then he keeps going, down your spine, over the curve of your waist... You smell like tanning oil and cherry lip gloss and the heat rising off your skin doesn't feel like it's just from the sun.

You shift slightly. One of your legs bends, foot bobbing lazily in the air. His hand slides just under the string of your bikini top, and you don't say anything. You hardly move at all, continuing to breathe soft and steady, like this is totally normal. Like your stepbrother isn't literally falling apart behind you.

"You're quiet," you say eventually. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing," he lies, voice tight.

"Hmm." You turn your head just enough to look at him. "You're acting weird again. Is it 'cause I walked past you in my towel this morning?"

He stiffens. You had walked past him in your towel this morning. It was short. And damp. And you'd dropped your lip balm in the hall in front of him, bending too far. He remembers the exact curve of your spine when you picked it up. He's been trying to forget ever since.

"No," he denies. Too fast.

You smile, slow and knowing. His hands are still on your waist and he has to take a moment to remember exactly who you are to him.

But then you tilt your head and pout, all glossy lips and perfect teeth and whisper: "Will you do my thighs, too? I don't wanna get burned."

He should say no. He really should. But in the end he shifts lower on the towel, rubs more sunscreen into his palms, and lets his hands wander. And when you sigh again, soft and sweet, like you've been waiting for this all summer...

Dodge knows he's not making it out of this house sane.