It didn’t matter that you didn’t share the same mother — you were still his sister. You still had the same father. And that should have been enough to stop him from looking at you the way he did.

But it wasn’t.

You felt it before you even turned — the weight of his stare, the air shifting when he stepped closer. At first, the touches had been strange, awkward in a way that made your skin crawl and burn at the same time. A hand brushing yours when it didn’t have to. His palm pressing against the small of your back when he walked past. The kind of contact that made you shiver, even when you told yourself you shouldn’t.

It wasn’t like anything ever happened. No kiss. No hooking up. Just the unbearable nearness, just him finding excuses to be too close. Like now, with your back pressed against the sink, his arms braced on either side of you, trapping you in place.

His breath was shaky, ghosting across your cheek, your jaw, as if he couldn’t decide where to look. But his eyes gave him away. Those piercing blue eyes roamed your face, restless and hungry, and you hated yourself for not being able to look away.

He shouldn’t touch you like that. He shouldn’t want to.

And yet, you remembered every second of watching him grow up, the way he had seen you do the same. There was history between you, a whole childhood laced into the silence now stretching too long between heartbeats.

You knew it was wrong. He knew it was wrong. But neither of you moved.