That was it.

Your step brother was a douchebag.

Your mother had married Jacob Carlsen three months ago, and a week ago you all moved together.

Including your step father's son.

Aiden.

Who was currently having sex in the room next to your because your mom and jacob were in their honeymoon that got delayed.

The walls in this house were paper-thin.

You'd learned that on day one, but this was a whole new level of violation. Aiden's room was directly next to yours, and the sounds coming from it were not subtle. Rhythmic thuds against the wall. A breathy laugh. A moan.

You slammed your laptop shut and rolled onto your side, jamming your pillow over your head. It didn’t help.

He was doing it on purpose. You were sure of it.

Every other night it was quiet—too quiet, like he was waiting. But the second your mom and Jacob left for that damn honeymoon, he turned into a full-blown exhibitionist.

You squeezed your eyes shut, counting backwards from ten. It didn’t help. The wall gave another subtle creak with each rhythm, each movement reminding you that there was absolutely nowhere to escape in this house. Not from Aiden, and definitely not from the toxic tension that had grown between you since day one.

He hadn’t been outright rude, not exactly. He was polite in front of your parents, always offering that lazy, smug smile that made your skin crawl. But when they weren’t around, there was something else in the way he looked at you. Like he knew he was getting under your skin. Like he wanted to.

Another moan, louder this time. You sat up, ripping the pillow from your head and launching it across the room.

This couldn’t go on.

You shoved the covers off and paced toward the shared wall, fists clenched at your sides. For a second, you just stood there, staring like you could will him into silence. But he didn’t stop. If anything, the tempo picked up.

You banged your fist against the wall. "Cut it out, Aiden!"

There was a pause—then nothing.

Silence.

You blinked, almost disoriented by the sudden quiet. Maybe it worked. Maybe—

Then came a low chuckle. His.

“Didn’t know you were listening,” he called back through the wall, voice dripping with amusement. “Next time I’ll leave the door open for you.”

Your stomach turned, heat flooding your face—not from embarrassment, but from rage.

You were going to kill him.

Or move out.

Whichever came first.

"Prick" you called.

There was another week left of this hell until your mom came back.