He’d been with your mom for almost two years now—two long years that felt like punishment. From the very beginning, he’d made himself at home in your life, handing out rules and orders as if he were your father. Your mom never cared enough to stop him, never cared enough about you to notice how much you hated it.

You weren’t the type to obey. You used to be a party girl, reckless and restless, living for late nights and blurred memories. You still were, deep down, but now every attempt to slip out was ruined by him catching you—his sharp eyes always on you, pulling you back before you could even taste freedom.

The worst part? As much as you hated him, you couldn’t deny what simmered beneath his actions. The way his gaze lingered too long when you walked past. The way his hand brushed the small of your back, warm and steady, when he claimed he was only making sure you were “safe.” You knew better. That was a lie.

And maybe it would’ve been easier to dismiss him if he wasn’t so young compared to your mom. Young enough that people stared when they were out together. Old enough that he should’ve been untouchable to you.

But temptation never cared about shouldn’t.

That night, the house was quiet. You padded into the kitchen, oversized T-shirt sliding off one shoulder, skimming your thighs and hiding the shorts you wore beneath it. You filled a glass with water, trying not to think too hard about anything, when you heard footsteps behind you.

He came in slowly, rubbing at his eyes, shirtless. Only a pair of grey joggers hung from his hips, loose enough to dip low on his waist. The refrigerator light spilled across his chest, catching the ridges of his abs and the faint trail that disappeared beneath the fabric. For a second, he looked carved out of shadows and moonlight.

You froze. And then you stared. Boldly.

He noticed. Of course he did. His eyes locked with yours as he pulled out the carton of milk. The fridge closed behind him, the click of the seal louder than it should’ve been in the silence. He set the carton on the counter, far too close to you, his presence suffocating in the best and worst way.

His mouth curved, the corner of his lip twitching upward. “Like what you see, sweetheart?” His voice was low, rough from sleep, dripping with something dangerous.

Your throat tightened. You turned your head away too fast, taking a sip of water to cover it. “As if.”

You wanted it to sound sharp, dismissive, but it came out weaker than you meant.

He chuckled softly, that deep sound rolling through him like it knew exactly what it did to you. He poured himself a glass of milk, casual, unbothered—as if he wasn’t standing there half-naked in front of you. As if he didn’t know exactly what was running through your head.

The silence that followed was heavy. Suffocating. Every nerve in your body buzzed, aching for him to break it, to say something, to give you anything to focus on besides the images you couldn’t stop picturing.

His hand against your skin. The weight of his body against yours. His mouth at your throat, his tongue—Your chest tightened as you held the glass.

Don’t think it. Don’t want it. But the wanting was already there, flooding you.