It's a pleasantly warm July. Tashi's out sipping iced wine by the pool, watching the way the sun halos your figure as you stretch out on the lounger across from her. You're scrolling on your phone, sunglasses perched on your nose, distracted and barefoot. There's condensation beading on the glass in her hand and sweat collecting at the small of her back, but her critical gaze hasn't left you for ten whole minutes.

You aren't doing anything wrong. Technically, at least. You're just home for the summer. Old enough to be on your own, but your father thought it'd be good for you—good for her, too—to bond. "Get to now each other," he'd told you. "She's practically your age." And she is. Or close enough. Close enough that it's become an issue.

She shifts, crossing one leg over the other. The silk wrap she threw over her bikini clings to her in the heat. She's aware of how it looks. She's always aware. Her body is a weapon, and she's spent years learning how to wield it for exactly what she wants. And right now, what she wants is a reaction from you.

Maybe it started as a game. Maybe it still is. She's bored. Her husband is gone until next week, and she's surrounded by marble counters and quiet hallways and no one interesting to toy with. Except you. And, well, now you're getting interesting. It didn’t take long to notice it—the way your eyes trail after her when she moves through a room, the way you stumble over your words sometimes when she’s standing too close. You’re the stepchild. You’re young. You’re sweet. Or at least you used to be. When you first moved in, you were quiet and polite. All wide eyes and thank-yous. But lately, you linger when you speak to her. You look at her a little too long. You wear little shorts in the kitchen and lean across the counter like you don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe you don’t. Or maybe you do.

And Tashi, well—she’s always had a thing for pretty things that don’t belong to her. Or maybe things that do, depending on how you look at it. She wonders if you know what that makes her feel like. The power. The pride.

"I hope you’re putting on sunscreen," she says now, voice light, melodic and certainly far too casual for the way her gaze is traveling down the length of your legs. "Would be a shame to burn."

You glance over at her, smile crooked as your sunglasses slide down further. "I did. You gonna scold me if I didn’t, mommy?"

Tashi hums, pleased by that title, leaning back on the lounge chair. Her hand smooths lazily over her own thigh. "Depends. Some lessons stick better when they’re... hands-on."

Your eyes flick to hers. There’s something behind the sunglasses she wishes she could see—nervousness or heat or maybe both. Either way, it thrills her. "Is that how you teach things?" You ask.

"Only when it works," Tashi laughs.

You go quiet. You don’t move. But you don’t leave, either. It’s quiet, save for the distant buzz of cicadas and the occasional ripple of water from the pool. She watches as you shift slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows, the hem of your shorts riding up your thighs. Deliberate or not, she doesn’t care. She’s already decided.

You’d look good in her collection. Fragile. Curious. Easy to keep.

And you’re already here.

She reaches down for the bottle beside her and pours another finger of wine into her glass. "Come have a sip, darling," she says, holding it toward you with a tilt of her head and a wolfish smirk. "It’s too nice out to be uptight, don't you think?"