Chapter 2

The house wakes me before my phone does.

Soft thumps from the kitchen. The low murmur of the coffee maker. Dad’s heavy footsteps in the hallway, then the quieter ones that belong to Mom. None of it is the thin dorm-wall noise I’ve gotten used to—strangers’ music, somebody’s alarm three doors down, the elevator ding at 2 a.m. This is thicker. Familiar. It sinks into my bones and reminds me exactly where I am before I even open my eyes.

I’m still in the same soft t-shirt and sleep shorts. The sheets are twisted around one leg. There’s a faint sticky feeling between my thighs from whatever half-dreams kept me restless most of the night. My clit gives a slow, sleepy pulse just from the memory of his voice saying I smelled nice. I roll onto my back and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars that barely show in the morning light.

A soft knock at the door.

“Sweetheart? You up?”

Mom’s voice, gentle. I clear my throat.

“Yeah. Come in.”

She opens the door just enough to lean in. Already dressed—nice blouse, the pearl earrings she wears for the club. Hair done. She smiles the way she does when she’s trying not to hover.

“Dad and I have that brunch at the country club. Golf buddies and their wives. We shouldn’t be too late, but just in case ... get yourself up, take a shower, find something to eat for you and your brother, okay? There’s eggs, leftover pasta, whatever you want.”

I nod against the pillow. “Okay. Have fun.”

She hesitates half a second, eyes flicking over the messy bed and my tangled hair, then softens.

“Text if you need anything. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The door clicks shut. A few minutes later I hear the garage door roll up, the car engine, the sound of them pulling away. The house settles into a new kind of quiet. Just me and him under the same roof.

I stay in bed longer than I should. Dirty thoughts start drifting in the second the silence stretches—his gray sweatpants from last night, the way they’d sat low on his hips, the heavy outline I’d stared at across the dinner table. The compliment still sits under my skin like a brand. You smell nice. I press my thighs together and feel the leftover slickness from the dreams. My hand slides under the waistband of the shorts before I catch myself. Just resting there. Feeling the heat. I don’t move it. Not yet.

Another knock.

Softer this time. Lower on the door.

I freeze, fingers still tucked against my pussy.

“Yeah?”

The door opens a few inches. He’s standing there in nothing but the same gray sweatpants from yesterday, low on his hips, drawstring loose. No shirt. Morning light from the hallway cuts across the broad plane of his chest, the faint trail of hair leading down his stomach, the soft heavy shape of him resting against one thigh. His hair is messy from sleep. There’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks younger and older at the same time—my little brother and something else entirely.

My eyes drag down before I can stop them. The way the sweatpants cling to the thick length of him, the slight dark shadow underneath where the fabric tents just a little from the morning. My mouth goes dry. My fingers twitch against my clit under the covers.

He rubs the back of his neck, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hey. Mom said to figure out food and stuff. You want the shower first, or you mind if I go ahead?”

I keep the sheet pulled up to my waist even though the t-shirt is thin enough that my nipples are already visible against the fabric. My heart is hammering. The dirty thoughts from thirty seconds ago are still swirling—what those sweatpants would look like shoved down, how heavy he’d feel in my hand, whether he’d still think I smelled sweet if he got close enough right now.

I swallow.

“You can go first,” I manage. My voice comes out lower than I mean it to. “I’m ... still waking up.”

He nods once, eyes flicking over the bed, the tangled sheets, the way I’m holding the covers. Something unreadable passes across his face—maybe just morning fog, maybe not. Then he steps back.

“Cool. Won’t be long.”

The door closes. I listen to his footsteps move down the hall toward the bathroom. The water starts a minute later.

I stay exactly where I am—flat on my back, sheet kicked down to my knees, sleep shorts still on. The soft cotton is already warm and a little damp between my legs. I slide my hand back under the waistband and just rest my fingers there at first. Light. Lazy. The pad of one fingertip finds my clit and stays, barely moving, while the sound of the shower fills the quiet house.

He’s right there. Naked under the spray. Soap running down the same chest I just stared at in the doorway. I picture the water tracing the line of hair on his stomach, catching on the thick length of him, dripping off the heavy head. My fingertip starts slow circles without me deciding to. Not enough pressure to really build anything. Just enough to keep the ache awake.

A soft, wet sound rises every time I shift. I push the shorts down far enough to get better access and slip two fingers lower, gathering the slick that’s already there. Bring them straight up to my face. The smell is stronger this morning—thicker, sleepier, pure me. I breathe it in deep, then open my mouth and lick. Salt and heat spread across my tongue. I suck the fingers clean and go back for more, slow, while the water keeps running.

I time it by the sounds.

The shower cuts off. The metal ring of the curtain. The soft thud of feet on the bath mat. The mirror cabinet opening, closing. I know the routine. He’ll towel off, maybe brush his teeth, then step into the hallway with the towel around his hips the same way he did the day everything started twisting inside me.

I wait until I hear the bathroom door open.

Then I push the covers off, yank the sleep shorts back up, and step into the hallway like I just happened to be heading that way.

He’s exactly where I wanted him.

Towel low on his hips, dark from the water, clinging to the heavy shape of him underneath. Hair dripping onto his shoulders. Water still running down the center of his chest in slow trails that disappear under the towel’s edge. The morning light from the bathroom catches the flex of his stomach when he shifts, the thick veins along his forearms, the soft weight of his balls pressing against the damp cotton. My eyes drag over every inch before I can stop them. My pussy clenches hard around nothing.

He looks up, a little surprised, still rubbing a smaller towel through his hair.

“All yours,” he says, voice rough. “Water’s still hot.”I nod. Force my feet to keep moving past him even though every nerve is screaming to stop and stare longer. The clean scent of his soap mixes with the leftover heat of his skin as I pass. My arm almost brushes his. I don’t let it.

“Thanks,” I manage.

I step into the bathroom and close the door. The mirror is still fogged at the edges. The air is warm and damp and smells like him. I lock it, lean back against the wood for a second, and press my thighs together. The sleep shorts are soaked through again.I can still taste myself on my tongue.

And I can still see the exact way that towel sat low on his hips.

The bathroom is still warm and damp from him.

I lock the door and stand in front of the mirror. The glass is fogged at the edges. I wipe a streak with the side of my hand and look at myself—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the thin t-shirt stuck to my skin in places from the hallway heat. My eyes are too dark. I look like someone who’s already halfway gone.

I grab my toothbrush and squeeze paste onto it like the ordinary motion will drag me back to normal. The bristles scrape my tongue. Mint floods my mouth, sharp and clean, but underneath it I can still taste the salt of my own fingers from a few minutes ago. The contrast makes my stomach twist.

Lust sits heavy and low, pulsing between my legs every time I shift. The sleep shorts are damp again. I can feel the slickness spreading, the soft cotton clinging to swollen folds. Shame crawls up right behind it—hot, familiar, the same voice that’s been in my head since the parking lot. He’s your little brother. You just timed walking into the hallway so you could stare at the outline of his cock under a towel. You stood there and drank him in like you were starving. Guilt follows last, heavier than the other two. It settles in my chest and makes it harder to breathe. Mom and Dad are at the country club trusting me to be the responsible one, and I’m in their bathroom with a soaked pussy and the exact shape of him burned behind my eyes.

I scrub my teeth harder. Spit. Rinse. The girl in the mirror doesn’t look any better. My nipples are visible against the soft fabric. My thighs keep pressing together on their own, chasing friction that only makes the heat worse. Another slow throb rolls through my clit. Fresh wetness slips out.

Cold shower. That’s the only thought that cuts through the noise. Cold water will shock it out of me. Kill the ache. Let me walk back out into the house and act like a normal older sister who didn’t just get wet from the sight of her brother in a towel.

I peel the t-shirt off. Sleep shorts and underwear follow. They hit the floor with a soft, damp sound. I don’t look down at the shiny mess between my legs. I just turn the handle all the way to cold and step under the spray before I can change my mind.

The water hits my shoulders like ice.

I gasp. My whole body locks up for a second. Nipples tighten so hard they hurt. Goosebumps race down my arms. It should be enough. It should kill every trace of the heat.

It doesn’t.

The cold slides over my skin and somehow makes everything sharper. My clit is still swollen, still throbbing, and every icy trickle that runs between my legs feels like a deliberate touch. I tip my head back and let the water soak my hair, trying to focus on the shock, the noise of it against the tile. Instead my mind supplies the picture of him again—water running down his chest the same way, towel low, the heavy hang of his cock and balls only half-hidden. My pussy clenches hard. A thick rush of wetness slips out and gets washed away immediately, but the sensation of it leaving me only makes the next pulse stronger.

I brace one hand on the wall. The other drifts down without permission, fingers sliding through the cold water and the heat that won’t quit. I’m still so slick. The cold hasn’t touched the inside of me at all. I circle my clit once, light, and my knees almost buckle. A broken sound escapes before I can stop it. The shame spikes again—loud, ugly—but it doesn’t make me pull my hand away. It just makes the next slow stroke feel filthier.

I was so fucking wrong.

The cold isn’t cooling anything off. It’s only making the contrast crueler. Hot and swollen and dripping under a stream of ice, standing in the same shower he just used, the air still carrying the faint clean scent of his soap. My fingers keep moving—lazy, stubborn circles that build the ache higher instead of easing it. Lust and guilt twist together until I can’t tell which one is making my thighs shake.

I don’t stop.

I just stand there under the freezing water with my forehead against the tile, two fingers working slowly between my legs, and the full weight of how badly I miscalculated settling in my chest.

The cold water keeps pounding my shoulders but it doesn’t matter.

My fingers are still moving—slow, stubborn circles over my clit, two of them slipping lower every few seconds to push inside just enough to feel the heat the shower can’t touch. My forehead is pressed to the tile. Eyes closed. The only sounds are the spray and the soft, wet noise of what I’m doing to myself. Lust is loud in my head, heavy between my legs, telling me to keep going, to chase the edge I denied last night and the night before that. It would be so easy. A few harder strokes. Let the cold and the shame and the memory of him in that towel push me over right here.

I know better.

The thought cuts through like a second kind of ice. You’re the older sister. He’s downstairs—or in his room, or wherever—waiting for breakfast like this is any other weekend. Mom and Dad trusted you to be normal. You don’t get to stand in their shower fingering yourself to the picture of your little brother’s cock.

I force my hand to stop.

It takes everything. My fingers stay pressed against my swollen clit for one more second, feeling the angry pulse, then I drag them away like they’re burned. The emptiness hits immediately. My pussy clenches around nothing, pushing out another thick rush of wetness that the cold water rinses straight down my thighs. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste metal and keep both hands flat on the tile until the worst of the shaking passes.

Good older sister. That’s the only version I’m allowed to be right now.

I turn the water warmer—just enough that I’m not shivering—and wash properly. Soap over my skin. Between my legs. Quick, clinical strokes that ignore how sensitive everything still is. Shampoo. Rinse. I don’t let my hands linger anywhere. When I step out the mirror is completely fogged. I don’t wipe it. I don’t want to see my face.

Towel. Clean underwear from the bag I left on the counter. Another pair of soft sleep shorts. A different t-shirt, slightly oversized. Hair brushed back and left damp. No makeup. Nothing that looks like I tried. I stare at the locked door for a long second, breathing through the leftover throb that still sits low in my belly, then unlock it and step into the hallway.

His bedroom door is closed. No sound. Maybe he’s already downstairs. Maybe he’s still getting dressed. I don’t let myself wonder which.

The stairs feel longer than they did last night. Every step makes the clean cotton of the shorts brush against my still-sensitive clit. I ignore it. Kitchen light is on. The house smells like coffee that Mom left warming. Ordinary. Safe. I open the fridge and stare at the shelves like the eggs and leftover pasta will tell me how to be normal.

I can still feel the phantom press of my own fingers. I can still see the towel low on his hips. The lust hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s just sitting quieter now, waiting.

I pull out the eggs anyway.

Good older sister.

That’s all I’m allowed to be until this weekend is over.

I’m at the stove pushing scrambled eggs around the pan when I hear him on the stairs.

He walks into the kitchen in dark shorts and a plain black t-shirt, hair fixed for once—still a little damp at the ends, pushed back like he actually looked in a mirror. There’s a faint trace of pink across his cheeks, the kind that could be leftover heat from the shower or something else entirely. My eyes drag over him before I can stop them: the way the t-shirt pulls across his chest, the soft bulk of his arms, the shorts sitting low enough that a thin strip of skin shows when he stretches. The heavy outline of him is easier to see in the thinner fabric. My pussy gives a slow, traitorous clench.