The house smelled like old wood and something frying in butter — a comforting scent if your stomach weren’t knotted. The walls were yellowed from time and cigarette smoke; the wallpaper near the phone in the hallway was peeling, no matter how many times Mom smoothed it down. Outside, the sky was burning into sunset — that dusky amber that made everything feel softer, like even the light was trying to mind its manners.
You’d grown up here. Every scuff on the floorboards had a story, every family picture on the wall had been posed in Sunday clothes, the smiles tight and proper. Ethan’s football trophies lined the shelf by the stairs, shining like reminders of who the real star of the family was.
And you? You were supposed to be the good one. The quiet one. The one who kept her head down and her skirts neat and her secrets buried.
But today — today you’d slipped.
“You sure you’re okay with me touching you like this?” Kyle had asked, voice barely a whisper against your lips. His hand had been warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing in soft circles like he was memorizing your skin.
You’d known him since you were twelve. Six years of slow-burn love — letters passed behind bleachers, nights spent on the phone whispering until you both fell asleep. He wasn’t the bad kind of boy, not really. Just the kind who looked at you like you were more than someone’s daughter or sister.
And for a second, you’d let yourself believe that was allowed.
Then the door had creaked open.
Ethan’s silhouette filled the frame — broad-shouldered, still in his football gear, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked from you to Kyle and back again, a flicker of disbelief before the smirk hit.
He didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked away, slow and deliberate, the door swinging shut behind him.
You knew it was over.
Now, evening light glows over the kitchen counters. The clock ticks too loud. The air smells like pot roast and guilt. You’re helping with dinner like you always do — peeling potatoes, stirring gravy, pretending nothing’s wrong.
Your mom, Amber, moves with her usual grace, her hair pinned perfectly despite the heat from the stove. She hums a tune from the radio, her voice soft and steady. She has that kind of beauty that sneaks up on people — gentle but unyielding, like the way she says your name when you’re in trouble.
Your dad, Tyler, is in the living room talking football stats with Ethan, his deep voice booming through the walls. You can hear the laughter between them, the clinking of a glass on the counter.
You peek up every few seconds, heart jumping each time Ethan laughs. He hasn’t said a word about what he saw — not yet. But you can feel it in your bones: he’s waiting for the perfect moment.
Dinner. He’s going to say it at dinner.
Tyler walks into the kitchen with a grin that could fill a stadium. “You women do good work,” he says, like it’s a sermon. He claps his hand against your back, firm but affectionate. “Honey, you’ll make a good wife one day.”
You manage a shaky smile, your face burning.
From behind him, Ethan snickers, low under his breath. “Or a mother first.”
Your hand freezes on the spoon.
Amber’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “What was that, Ethan? Men don’t mumble.”
He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll explain at the dinner table.”
“Now, Ethan,” your dad says, half-curious, half-warning.
Ethan shakes his head with that same lazy grin. “Nah, let’s just wait until dinner.”
You feel it — the air shift, the way silence fills the cracks between every sound. The kitchen feels smaller somehow. The smell of dinner makes you sick.
Your fingers tremble as you stir the pot again, trying to steady your breathing. Don’t react. Don’t show fear. If you stay quiet, maybe he’ll lose interest. Maybe he’ll let it go.
But Ethan never lets things go. He’s the golden boy. He’s always been untouchable. And now, he’s got you pinned in the worst way possible.