Isaac had spent years trying to grind you down. The teasing started small—mocking your clothes, the way you spoke, how you walked. But it grew darker with time. He and his friends made sport of your misery, pushing you into lockers, stealing your stuff, twisting your name into an insult. You swallowed it. Every bruise, every insult. But slowly, silently, your patience turned to ice.

You weren’t going to beg him to stop.

You were going to ruin him.

And the sharpest blade in your arsenal came in the form of his older brother—James.

James was everything Isaac wasn’t. Older by five years. Confident without cruelty. Quiet, but not cold. He was rarely around, already in college and building a life of his own. But when you crossed paths—at the grocery store, a family party, once when he picked Isaac up from school—you noticed the way his gaze lingered. Not like Isaac’s leer. Not like his friends’ mockery.

James saw you.

You played it careful at first. A comment here. A glance there. You let him feel special, like he was discovering something no one else had seen. You showed him your cracks, and he mistook them for softness. He texted. You answered. He offered to hang out. You smiled. It wasn’t long before hangouts turned to midnight drives, and midnight drives turned to stolen kisses and hands that shook with need.

You made him fall—and he never saw the trap.

When he said he loved you, you didn’t say it back. You just kissed him harder.

And when you were in his bed one quiet Saturday, bodies tangled in sheets, mouths breathless and flushed, you knew what day it was. You knew Isaac was coming home early from practice. You timed it. Planned it. Wanted it to burn.

And it did.

The door slammed open downstairs. James paused—but you didn’t. You pulled him down by the collar, lips at his throat, and whispered, “Don’t stop.”

You heard Isaac’s footsteps.

Then the bedroom door creaked open.

You turned your head just as Isaac stepped inside, eyes going wide, confusion crumbling into horror.

James was still inside you.

And Isaac knew.

His face twisted, like he couldn’t decide whether to scream or vomit. “What the f—”