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.
The word is a weapon. A reminder. A fucking power play that makes me want to throw the knife at his head.
He's gone before I can form a response, and then I hear her voice in the foyer—high and breathy, delighted to see him—and his low laugh in return.
Their footsteps disappear upstairs, his door closes with deliberate finality, and I'm left standing in the kitchen with a half-made sandwich and underwear that's embarrassingly damp.
You're not going to think about what they're doing up there.
I reorganize the pantry with the focus of someone diffusing a bomb. Alphabetize the spice rack. Deep clean the microwave. Watch three episodes of a reality show about people who marry inanimate objects.
Hours pass. The sun sets.
Around eight, I hear them come downstairs—her giggle, his murmur, the clink of glasses in the kitchen.
They'll have a drink, and then she'll leave. That's how these things work.
I slip past the kitchen doorway and climb the stairs before they notice me. The shower is my sanctuary. Hot water, locked door, the white noise of falling water drowning out everything else.
Except—
"Oh God, Caleb!"
Jade's voice cuts through the wall like it's made of tissue paper. High and desperate and absolutely not faking it.
"Right there," her voice climbs higher. "Don't stop, don't… fuck!"
His response is too low to make out, but the rhythm of what follows needs no translation.
Turn off the water. Get out. Go downstairs. Do literally anything else.
I don't move. Her moans build in pitch and urgency and I hear the creak of bedsprings, the thump of a headboard against a wall.
Heat coils between my thighs, insistent and demanding. My body betrays me completely, nipples tightening, breath coming shorter, and I hate myself for the way my hand drifts down my stomach.
I've never touched myself like this before. Never let my fingers drift lower than curiosity, never chased the tension that sometimes builds when I'm alone in my bed at night.
Now I let the water pressure do what my shame won't allow my hands to do, angling my hips toward the showerhead, letting the stream hit me where I need it. Where I'm aching and swollen and absolutely going to hell for this.
Her sounds guide me.
What would it feel like? His hands instead of water. His weight pressing me against the tile. His voice in my ear, low and commanding.
"That's it," I imagine him saying. "Take it. Take everything I give you."
The fantasy builds without permission. Caleb is behind me in the kitchen, but this time he doesn't step away. His hands slide around my waist. His mouth finds my throat.
The pressure builds impossibly fast, my free hand bracing against the tile as my legs shake. The water beats against my clit in a rhythm that matches the sounds from his room, and I'm chasing something I've never let myself want before.
"Caleb…" I whisper, so quiet even I barely hear it.
When I come, it's violent. Earth-shattering.
My vision whites out and I have to bite my lip hard enough to taste blood to keep from crying out. Waves of pleasure crash through me, leaving me gasping and trembling under the spray.
The silence hits me first.
No more sounds from his room. Nothing.
Oh God. Oh fuck. Could they hear—
I turn off the water with shaking hands, shame flooding in to fill every space pleasure just vacated. Wrapping myself in a towel, I stumble toward the door, needing to confirm that barrier between my humiliation and reality.
The door to his room is cracked open.
Just an inch. Barely noticeable unless you're looking. But I checked it before I got in the shower. I'm certain I did. It was closed. Firmly, completely closed.
My heart stops.
Did he open it?
He knew I was in here. Heard the shower running. And while I was touching myself to the sound of him fucking another girl, he… cracked the door open.
The question isn't if he heard me.
Did he want me to know?