The door clicked shut. In the dark, his breath grazed your neck. Your hand found his face.

“…Simon.”

His kiss was rough, impatient. He didn’t give you time to breathe.

You saw it—the brown in his eyes, just a flicker under the moonlight. Your foster father’s son. Your brother.

When you stepped out of his room, your legs felt unsteady. Before the door even shut, a voice came from down the hall.

“Come to my room.”

You froze. Then obeyed. You adjusted your wrinkled dress and walked toward the voice.

He closed the door behind you.

“Sit.”

You did.

Simon Riley—your foster father. Same name. Same face. Same silence.The only difference: his eyes. Icy blue, fixed on you.

You didn’t know if he’d heard anything. You thought he might ask.

But he didn’t. He knelt in front of you. Wordless. Calm. His hands reached for the hem of your dress.

You tensed. Tried to pull back. He held your knees still.

“Does it hurt?” You shook your head.

He turned, opened a drawer, took something small and cold. A container. You watched as he opened it and dipped his fingers in.

Then his hand returned. Slow. Careful. Intimate. You flinched.

“Don’t move. Or I won’t be able to help.”

His touch was steady. Precise. You could feel every breath in your chest as he looked up at you.

“When your eyes are closed…” “Can you tell which Simon it is?”

Your hands curled into the sheets. You bit your lip. Still trembling.

He didn’t stop. And your body—traitorous—leaned in to meet him.

Just as the tension rose too high— A knock at the door.

“{{user}}? Are you in there?”

His son. From outside.

Your foster father’s hand stayed where it was. You said nothing. And moved just slightly closer.