I know him better now than I ever wanted to.

He runs at six—I’ve memorized the particular weight of his footsteps on the stairs, heavier on the left side.

Showers at six-forty, and the pipes in my bathroom sing a specific note when the water pressure changes.

Leaves at seven-fifteen, engine fading down the street like a held breath finally released.

I’ve learned to exist in the negative space he leaves behind. And he keeps his promises about making my life hell, of course.

Tuesday: my shampoo mysteriously turned my hair traffic-cone orange.

Wednesday: every single bra I own disappeared, reappearing frozen in blocks of ice in the freezer.

Thursday: my laptop password changed itself to “DaddyIssues123.”

I wonder what cruelty comes next.

But here’s the fucked up part—I’m almost looking forward to it. The daily warfare. The creative cruelty. Because at least when he’s tormenting me, he’s thinking about me.

Our parents work long hours, leaving behind a house that feels too large and too small simultaneously. I track his movements by sound alone—the refrigerator seal breaking, floorboards protesting, the particular creak of his bedroom door.

This is unhealthy. Normal people don’t memorize the sound of someone’s footsteps.

But I’m not avoiding him anymore. I’m orbiting. There’s a difference, really. Though I can’t articulate it without sounding insane.

The real reason I track his schedule so carefully is simpler than I want to admit.

If I know where he is, I can make sure I’m not there.

Because the image from the locker room hasn’t faded. Not the water sliding down his chest. Not the towel slung low on his hips. Not the defined lines of his stomach catching light.

I hate him. I hate everything about him except the architecture of his body, and that exception is destroying me.

At three-fourteen in the afternoon I’m in the kitchen, finally emerging from my room for food. The kitchen is supposedly safe.

He doesn’t get home until 4:30 on Thursdays—lacrosse conditioning followed by whatever extracurricular torture session makes his body look like that.

Stop thinking about his body.

I’m halfway through making the world’s saddest turkey sandwich when the front door opens an hour earlier than his schedule allows.

My entire body goes on high alert—skin prickling, pulse jackknifing, something deep in my belly doing this slow, hot twist that I refuse to acknowledge.

Don’t turn around. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

His footsteps cross the tile. Refrigerator opens. Closes. The mundane domesticity of it all is somehow worse than active hostility.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

Don’t give him a reason to bully you.

Then heat radiates against my back.

He’s right behind me. Close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his skin. His arm reaches past my shoulder toward the top shelf, his chest brushing against my back—bare skin against the thin cotton of my tank top.

And that’s when I realize… He’s shirtless.

My hands freeze on the cutting board and the knife slips from my fingers.

“Careful,” he murmurs, and his breath ghosts across my ear. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

His chest presses more firmly against my back as he reaches higher, and the contact sends electricity shooting down my spine, pooling low and hot in my belly. I can feel every ridge of muscle, every breath he takes, the way his heart beats steady while mine tries to escape through my ribs.

The memory slams into me without warning: Jade on that sink. Her legs around his waist. His mouth on her throat. “Let them see.”

My knees actually wobble. Like I’m some Victorian maiden about to swoon over a glimpse of ankle, except it’s my stepbrother’s abs and I want to die.

“Something wrong, princess?” His breath stirs the hair at my temple.

Move. Say something. Push him away.

He pulls down a protein bar with agonizing slowness, dragging out the contact until I’m practically vibrating with the need to either murder him or do something much, much worse.

The doorbell rings and when he steps back, I nearly collapse against the counter.

“That’ll be Jade.” He tears open the protein bar with his teeth, watching me with an expression I can’t read. “Try not to listen too hard, sis.”

Sis.

You’re not going to think about what they’re doing up there.

“Right there,” her voice climbs higher. “Don’t stop, don’t… fuck!”

Turn off the water. Get out. Go downstairs. Do literally anything else.

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