"You're quiet," Derek says as he pulls onto the Pacific Coast Highway, the city lights shrinking in the rearview mirror. "Still thinking about the rink?"
I shake my head, though that's not entirely true. The panic attack lingers at the edges of my consciousness, but something else has taken center stage—the way Derek sat with me on the ice, patient and steady.
"I'm thinking about how you didn't run," I admit. "Most people would have."
"Most people are idiots." He grins, that easy smile that makes my chest tighten. "Besides, where would I run to? You're my ride-or-die stepsister now. We're bonded for life."
"Bonded by shared trauma and melted ice cream."
"The strongest bonds there are," his smile widens.
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. Two weeks ago, I didn't know this man existed. Now he's the only person who makes breathing feel possible.
Derek McKinney is kind—not because he wants something, not because he's performing for an audience, but because kindness lives in his bones the way cruelty lives in his brother's.
I've never met anyone like him.
"Dad's still stuck in his office," Derek says, checking his phone at a red light. "His meeting ran long. Won't be back tonight."
"Oh." I process this information, turning it over in my mind. "So it's just us and Tyler tonight?"
"Tyler's at a team dinner." Derek shoots me a sideways glance. "Why? Disappointed you won't get to dodge his insults all evening?"
"Devastated," I say dryly. "I was really looking forward to being called a charity case over dinner."
"His loss." The light turns green, and Derek accelerates smoothly. "I'm much better company anyway."
The mansion is dark when we arrive, empty in a way that feels different from usual. No staff bustling in the kitchen. No Veronica's perfume lingering in the hallways. No Zack's presence pressing against the walls like something waiting to happen.
"Do you want to watch a movie?" The question comes out too fast.
My palms are slick. My breath sits shallow in my lungs. Every nerve in my body hums with anticipation and terror, waiting for his response.
Derek goes still. His eyes find mine, and I see a flicker of understanding in his expression, like he can see straight through the casual words to what I'm really asking.
"A movie," he repeats slowly.
"Unless you're tired." My voice sounds breathless and uncertain. "I just thought—the house is so quiet, and I don't really want to be alone, and—"
"Ellie." He says my name softly, cutting off my rambling. His gaze holds mine for a long moment, searching. Whatever he finds there makes his jaw tighten.
"I make excellent popcorn," he says finally. "It's my one domestic skill."
"Your one skill is popcorn?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Don't knock it until you've tried it." His smile returns. "I add truffle oil. It's life-changing."
This is stupid. Am I stupid?
I should say goodnight, retreat to my room, remember that this man is technically my step-cousin and nothing good can come from the warmth spreading through my chest every time he looks at me.
"Okay," I hear myself say instead. "Show me this life-changing popcorn."
We end up in the media room, a massive screen glowing with whatever film Derek selected. I couldn't tell you the title if my life depended on it. The plot dissolves into background noise while my entire awareness narrows to the man beside me.
Derek sits close enough that our thighs press together. The heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of my jeans, and I find myself leaning into it without meaning to.
Derek could be my first.
The thought makes my pulse race, heat flooding my cheeks. I steal glances at his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his curls fall across his forehead.
How do I start this? Do I just... lean over? Touch him? What if I'm reading everything wrong?
His arm moves before I can spiral further, settling across my shoulders and pulling me against his side. The gesture is casual, almost brotherly—except for the way his thumb traces small circles on my upper arm.
"Is this okay?" he asks quietly.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
The movie plays on. Derek's hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. My skin feels too tight, too hot, every nerve ending attuned to his touch.
When his fingers find my waist, I stop breathing entirely.
Is this really happening?
His hand rests against the curve of my hip, warm through the thin fabric, and I can feel each individual fingertip.
He shifts closer. His other hand rises slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don't move. I couldn't move if I wanted to—my body has become something foreign.
His palm cups my jaw, tilting my face toward his. The pad of his thumb traces my cheekbone, feather-light, and the tenderness of it undoes something in my chest.
My pulse thunders in my ears. Heat blooms across my skin, spreading from every point of contact until I feel like I might combust if he doesn't close the distance between us.
I lean into his palm, the smallest movement, the only answer I know how to give. His breath catches. His eyes darken.
His mouth meets mine, and the world narrows to this single point of contact. He tastes like salt and popcorn. My fingers find the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric like an anchor, like if I let go I might float away entirely.
This is my first kiss, and it's perfect.
He pulls back slowly, his forehead resting against mine. "Okay?"
"More than okay." My voice comes out breathless, unsteady.
Heat replaces tenderness in his expression. He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine until I gasp into his mouth.
Then he eases me back against the cushions, his body hovering over mine. The weight of him grounds me, anchors me in my own skin for the first time in weeks.
"Ellie." His voice is rough against my throat as he presses kisses down the column of my neck. "Have you done this before? Been with anyone?"
The question should embarrass me. Yet, I shake my head, honest and unashamed.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. "I'll go slow," he murmurs, no hesitation in his eyes. "We'll go slow."
His hands move with intention now—sliding beneath the hem of my shirt, his palms mapping the terrain of my skin inch by careful inch. The warmth of his touch spreads through me like honey, thick and golden and impossibly sweet.
I need more of him.
He trails kisses along my jaw, down my throat, pausing at the hollow where my pulse hammers against his lips. His fingers trace the curve of my waist, learning the dip and rise of my body.
Then his palm slides higher, skimming my ribcage, and my breath fractures. Every nerve ending sparks at his touch.
His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, and the sound that escapes me is needy and raw. His hips press into mine in response, and I feel the hard length of him against my thigh.
The knowledge that I'm doing this to him—that I have this effect on someone, that I can make this golden, kind, impossible man lose his composure—floods me with a power I've never felt before.
I arch into him, craving more contact, more friction, more of whatever this feeling is that's building low in my stomach.
"Jesus Christ." The voice isn't Derek's.
It belongs to Uncle Zack.
Zack stands in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, staring at the tableau on his couch: his son hovering over the girl he invited into his home, my shirt rucked up, my lips swollen, my eyes wide with horror.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
Zack's gaze travels over us—over me—and I watch emotions war across his face. Shock,then anger,and beneath it all, unmistakable, undeniable: heat.
"Get. Up." His voice is deadly quiet. "Now."
________________