Chapter 1: The Moving Box Incident
The box was heavy and awkward, corners digging into his forearms as Marcus climbed the stairs. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the October chill seeping through the old house's walls. His mother's handwriting stared up at him from the cardboard—Fragile in blue ballpoint, the letters shaky near the end.
He shouldn't have tried to carry it alone.
But asking for help meant talking, and talking meant eye contact, and eye contact meant watching people's gazes drift down to his shoulders, his chest, the way his clothes never quite fit right no matter how many sizes he went up. So he'd hauled the box from the U-Haul himself while Tom unpacked kitchen supplies and Sophie—he still couldn't think of her as his sister—directed furniture placement with the kind of authority that made moving men snap to attention.
The hallway upstairs was a labyrinth of mismatched boxes. Some labeled Granddad's Things in faded Sharpie. Others bulging with yellowed photos of a broad-shouldered man in suspenders, his face half-obscured by time and poor photography. The floral wallpaper peeled in damp, curling strips near the floorboards, and the whole corridor smelled like mothballs and something older underneath. Something unsettled.
Marcus's foot caught on a loose nail jutting from the stair's edge.
He stumbled. The box lurched in his grip, and he grabbed for the wall with his free hand, fingers splaying against peeling paper. But the weight shifted wrong, and his sweatpants—loose, gray, the ones he'd bought two sizes too big specifically to avoid this kind of attention—snagged on the same nail that had nearly tripped him.
The fabric tore.
Not a small tear either. The entire left leg ripped open from knee to ankle, and the waistband, already riding low because he'd forgotten to tie the drawstring, gave up entirely. The pants dropped to his ankles in one graceless motion, pooling around his sneakers like a fabric puddle of shame.
He froze.
The box tipped in his arms, and he scrambled to keep it from falling, which meant he couldn't immediately pull his pants back up. Which meant he stood there in the hallway, holding his dead mother's belongings, wearing nothing but a pair of gray boxer briefs that suddenly felt obscenely tight.
That was when Sophie rounded the corner.
She was fresh from the shower, hair wet and dripping onto her collarbone, wearing nothing but a towel that barely contained her. The white fabric strained across her chest, knotted loosely above her cleavage, and the bottom edge rode high enough to expose the full, heavy curve of her hips. Her thighs were thick—athletic, he'd told himself earlier, just athletic—and water droplets traced lazy paths down her golden skin.
She stopped mid-step.
Her eyes went wide.
Then they went down.
Marcus felt the exact moment her gaze landed on him. Not on his face. Not on the box. On the unmistakable outline straining against his boxers, because apparently his body had decided that humiliation wasn't enough—it needed to add betrayal to the menu.
Three seconds.
Three full seconds of absolute stillness.
The air between them turned electric. Not quite shock. Not quite shame. Something else, something that crackled along his spine and settled low in his stomach, something that made his fingers dig into the cardboard until his knuckles went white.
Sophie's tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip.
Marcus's brain short-circuited.
He'd noticed her before, obviously. It was impossible not to notice Sophie Hale. She was the kind of girl who commanded rooms without trying, who wore sundresses like weapons and smiled like she knew exactly what effect she had on every person within a fifty-foot radius. His first week in this house, he'd walked into the kitchen at midnight for a glass of water and found her eating ice cream straight from the carton in nothing but an oversized t-shirt that barely covered her ass. He'd retreated so fast he'd nearly broken his toe on the doorframe.
Since then, he'd perfected the art of avoidance.
Staying in his room. Eating at odd hours. Timing his bathroom trips around her schedule. It wasn't that he disliked her—she'd been nothing but nice, actually, always asking if he needed anything, always flashing that brilliant smile that made his chest ache in ways he refused to examine. It was that being around her felt like standing too close to a fire. Eventually, you got burned.
Now here he was. Pants around his ankles. Boxers doing absolutely nothing to hide his body's enthusiastic response to her proximity.
"Marcus?"
Her voice came out breathless. Not disgusted. Not horrified. Breathless. Like she'd just run up the stairs. Like she'd been waiting for something like this.
"I—" He tried to move, tried to shift the box, tried to do anything, but his feet were tangled in his pants and his coordination had abandoned him entirely. "The nail—I tripped—the box—"
Words. He was saying words. Were they English? He couldn't tell anymore.
Sophie took a step closer.
The towel slipped.
Just an inch. Just enough to show the upper swell of her breasts, the smooth expanse of skin that glistened with shower water. She didn't fix it. Didn't even glance down. Her eyes stayed locked on his, blue and bright and hungry in a way that made his mouth go dry.
"You dropped your pants," she said.
Her tone was conversational. Like she was commenting on the weather. Like she wasn't standing half-naked in front of her stepbrother while he sported the world's most obvious erection.
"I—yeah." Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. "I noticed."
"I noticed too."
Another step. Close enough now that he could smell her shampoo—something floral and sweet, jasmine maybe, or honeysuckle. Close enough that he could see the flush spreading across her chest, pink and warm against her skin.
The box was slipping. He was going to drop it. He was going to drop his mother's things and they were going to scatter across the floor and he was going to stand here, exposed and humiliated, while Sophie Hale looked at him like she wanted to eat him alive.
"Sophie—"
"Don't."
The word cut through the air like a blade. Sharp. Final. She reached out and placed one hand flat against his chest, fingers spreading over the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and he felt the heat of her palm like a brand.
"You can put the box down," she said. "You don't have to run."
He swallowed. Hard. His throat clicked.
"I'm not—I wasn't—"
"You were." Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You always do. The second I walk into a room, you find an excuse to leave. I'm not blind, Marcus. I notice things."
She noticed things.
She noticed him.
The box slipped another inch. His arms burned. Sweat traced down his temple, and he couldn't tell if it was from exertion or from the way Sophie's hand was slowly sliding up his chest, her fingers catching on the collar of his shirt, tugging just slightly.
"You're shaking," she murmured.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
A beat of silence. The house creaked around them, old bones settling, and somewhere downstairs Tom was still unpacking boxes, still humming that off-key tune he hummed when he thought no one was listening.
Sophie's hand moved to his jaw. Her thumb brushed over his bottom lip, and he stopped breathing entirely.
"You know what I think?" she whispered.
He shook his head. Words were impossible. Words were a foreign concept. There was only her touch, her scent, her body so close to his that he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin.
"I think you've been hiding in that room for weeks," she said. "I think you've been avoiding me. And I think you feel it too."
Her gaze dropped to his mouth.
"Do you, Marcus? Do you feel it?"
The box hit the floor.
Not gently. Not carefully. It landed with a heavy thud, the cardboard corners crunching, and Marcus didn't care. His mother's belongings sprawled across the hallway, a photograph here, a ceramic figurine there, but his hands were already moving, catching Sophie's waist before he could think better of it.
She was soft. So impossibly soft. Her skin yielded under his grip, and she gasped—a small, sharp sound that went straight to his groin.
The towel was barely hanging on.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped.
Sophie's eyes flashed.
"No."
"No."
The word hung between them like smoke. Marcus's hands stayed locked on her waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh above the towel's hem. Sophie's chin lifted, defiant, and she didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Didn't do anything but stare at him with those blue eyes that saw too much.
"You don't get to tell me to stop," she said. "You don't get to touch me and then panic."
"I'm not panicking."
"You're vibrating."
She wasn't wrong. His whole body hummed like a live wire, every nerve ending attuned to the warmth of her skin, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her pulse fluttered against his thumb where it rested at the curve of her hip.
"I just—" He swallowed. "This is insane."
"Probably."
"We barely know each other."
"We've lived in the same house for three weeks."
"That's not—" He stopped. Started again. "You're my stepsister."
The word landed wrong. Awkward. Like a shoe that didn't fit.
Sophie's lips curved. Not a smile exactly. Something sharper. Something that made his stomach flip.
"Step," she repeated. "Not real. Not blood. Just a piece of paper Tom signed at a courthouse."
"That paper means something."
"Does it?" She shifted closer, and the towel slipped another inch. He caught a glimpse of the valley between her breasts, smooth and shadowed, before forcing his eyes back to her face. "Because from where I'm standing, it just means we share a last name and a mailing address. It doesn't mean I can't do this."
Her hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck. Her nails scraped lightly against his scalp, and his knees actually buckled. Just a little. Just enough that she noticed, because her smirk widened.
"Or this."
She pulled his mouth to hers.
The kiss wasn't gentle. Wasn't tentative. It was teeth and tongue and the taste of her toothpaste, minty and sharp, and Marcus made a sound he'd never made before. Something between a groan and a whimper. His hands moved on their own, sliding up her back, pressing her closer, and the towel gave up entirely.
It pooled at her feet.
She was naked. Completely, gloriously naked, and he couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe. His eyes traveled down her body like they had a mind of their own—the full curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips that he'd tried so hard not to stare at during breakfast.
"You're staring," she murmured against his mouth.
"You're naked."
"Astute observation."
"I—" He gestured vaguely. "You're—"
"Beautiful? Gorgeous? The best thing you've ever seen?" She tilted her head. "I've heard them all, but you can pick your favorite."
His laugh came out strangled. "You're insane."
"So you keep saying."
She kissed him again. Deeper this time. Slower. Her tongue traced his bottom lip, and his hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him. The friction of her bare skin against his boxers nearly undid him. He was hard—had been hard since the moment she'd rounded the corner—and there was no hiding it now. No box. No pants. Just the thin cotton of his underwear and the heat of her pressed against him.
She pulled back just enough to breathe. Her forehead rested against his, and her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.
"We should go downstairs," she whispered.
"What?"
"Dinner. Tom's been calling."
Marcus blinked. The world came rushing back—the creaking house, the distant clatter of pots, the smell of something burning. Reality. Shit.
"Sophie—"
"Later." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Right now, we eat. We smile. We pretend this didn't happen. And then—" She stepped back, bending to retrieve her towel with a grace that made his mouth go dry. "—we figure out what happens next."
She wrapped the towel around herself, knotting it with practiced efficiency. Already the picture of innocence. Already the girl he'd been avoiding for weeks, the one who smiled at him over cereal and asked if he wanted anything from the store.
"You're evil," he said.
"You have no idea."
She turned and walked toward her bedroom, hips swaying, and Marcus stood there in his boxers with his mother's belongings scattered at his feet and the taste of Sophie still on his tongue.
---
Dinner was torture.
Tom had made meatloaf. Marcus had said something about meatloaf being his favorite, which was a lie, but it made Tom smile. So now there was meatloaf. Dry, dense, covered in a ketchup glaze that had congealed into something resembling plastic.
Marcus pushed it around his plate.
He was supposed to be eating. Sophie was across from him, wearing an oversized sweater and nothing else as far as he could tell, and she kept looking at him.
"Everything okay?" Tom asked. "You've barely touched your food."
"Huh? Yeah. Just tired." Marcus shoveled a forkful of meatloaf into his mouth. It tasted like cardboard and regret. "Long day with the boxes."
"Tell me about it." Tom launched into a story about the U-Haul and the broken dolly and the guy at the rental place who'd tried to charge him for damage he didn't cause. Marcus nodded at what he hoped were appropriate intervals.
Then he felt it.
A foot. Under the table. Sliding up his calf.
His knee jerked and hit the table, rattling the silverware. Tom paused mid-sentence.
"You okay?"
"Knee. Joke." Marcus's voice came out too high. "Old football injury."
Tom frowned. "I didn't know you played football."
"I don't—" The foot moved higher, tracing the inside of his thigh. Marcus gripped his fork until his knuckles went white. "I mean, I didn't. Play. Much. Just a little. In middle school."
Sophie's expression remained serene. She cut her meatloaf into careful squares and lifted a piece to her mouth, chewing slowly.
"Marcus was telling me about his mom earlier," she said.
Tom's face softened. "Oh?"
"I—" Marcus shot Sophie a look. She smiled back.
"Just that she loved gardening," Sophie continued. "Had a whole rose bush in the backyard."
"She did." Marcus's voice cracked. Sophie's toes had found the waistband of his sweatpants. His very loose, very thin sweatpants. He'd changed before dinner, thank God, but that didn't make this any less obscene.
"I remember," Tom said quietly. "She used to send me pictures of those roses. Every spring. I have some on my phone, actually—"
His dad launched into a story about Marcus's mother. The kind of story Marcus usually listened to with a lump in his throat. Right now, he couldn't hear a word over the blood roaring in his ears.
Sophie's foot slipped lower. Then higher. Her toes curled against his inner thigh, and Marcus dropped his fork.
It clattered against his plate.
"You seem jumpy," Sophie observed. "Everything okay?"
"Fine." His voice came out strangled. "Just—hiccups. I get hiccups."
Tom looked up from his phone. "You get hiccups? I thought you had a knee thing."
"Both. I have both. Hiccups and knees." Marcus cleared his throat. "It's an inherited condition."
Sophie bit her lip. She was enjoying this. The little demon was enjoying this.
"Maybe you should drink some water," she suggested.
"Maybe I should."
He reached for his glass. Sophie's hand moved under the table, swift and sure, landing on his knee. Her fingers crawled upward, and he almost—almost—dropped the glass a second time.
"So," Tom said, oblivious. "Sophie, how's the job search going?"
Sophie's hand stilled. Her expression flickered, something dark passing through her eyes before she smoothed it away.
"Still looking. There's a place downtown that might be hiring."
"What kind of place?"
"Boutique. Clothing. It's nothing special, but—" She shrugged. Her hand disappeared from Marcus's knee, and he exhaled. "It pays the bills."
"You know you don't have to rush," Tom said. "You're welcome here as long as you need."
"I know." Sophie's voice went quiet. "Thanks, Tom."
An awkward silence settled over the table. Marcus watched Sophie's shoulders tighten, watched her push her meatloaf around her plate in a way that mirrored his earlier restlessness. There was something there. Something he didn't understand.
Then her foot found his ankle. Gentle this time. Almost apologetic.
He looked up. She was watching him with a different expression now—not the teasing smirk from earlier, but something softer. Something that made his chest ache.
"More meatloaf?" Tom asked.
"No thanks." Marcus handed over his plate. "I'm good."
"Me too." Sophie passed hers. "I think I'm going to turn in early."
Tom glanced at the clock. "It's not even eight."
"It's been a long day." She stood, stretching, and the sweater rode up just enough to show a sliver of her stomach. Marcus forced himself to look at his napkin.
"Goodnight," she said.
"Goodnight," Tom replied.
Marcus said nothing. He couldn't. His tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth.
Sophie passed behind him on her way to the stairs. Her hand brushed his shoulder—casual, careful, the kind of touch no one would notice unless they were looking. Marcus felt it like a brand.
"Night, Marcus," she murmured.
"Night."
She disappeared up the stairs. Tom started clearing plates, humming that off-key tune again, and Marcus sat frozen in his chair.
His heart was a drum. His hands were shaking. He could still feel the ghost of her fingers on his skin, the taste of her kiss, the weight of her eyes.
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
"You okay?" Tom asked, pausing with a stack of plates. "You look pale."
"Just tired." Marcus dug his nails into his palms. "Think I'll call it a night too."
"Sure thing, kiddo."
Kiddo. He flinched. But Tom didn't notice.
Marcus climbed the stairs slowly, each creak of the floorboards a warning. The hallway was dark, the boxes still scattered where he'd dropped them. His mother's things. That figurine. That photograph.
He'd deal with it tomorrow.
Right now, he had bigger problems.
Sophie's door was closed. He could see the faint line of light beneath it, the shadow of her moving inside. Taking off the sweater. Climbing into bed.
He could knock.
He should knock.
He didn't knock.
Instead, he walked to his own room and shut the door behind him. His bed was a mess of tangled sheets, his laptop open on the desk, his whole life contained in four walls and a rented room.
He pressed his forehead against the door and closed his eyes.
Three weeks. This was his life now. His new town. His new house. His new family.
His stepsister.
The taste of her was still on his lips, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was only the beginning.
The knock came at midnight.
Soft. Quick. Two raps against the wood, barely loud enough to hear.
Marcus sat up in bed, heart hammering. He'd been staring at the ceiling for hours, replaying every moment in that hallway. Every touch. Every word. He'd convinced himself she would stay in her room. That she'd come to her senses.
He was wrong.
"What?" he whispered.
The door cracked open. Sophie slipped inside, closing it behind her without a sound. She was wearing a t-shirt this time. Just a t-shirt. It hit her mid-thigh, and her hair was loose, falling in waves around her shoulders.
"You didn't knock," she said.
"What?"
"I was waiting for you to knock. You didn't."
"I—" He didn't know how to finish that sentence.
She crossed the room. The floorboards creaked under her feet, but she didn't seem to care. She stopped at the edge of his bed, looking down at him with that same unreadable expression from dinner.
"Scoot over."
"What?"
"Scoot. Over."
He moved. Because apparently he was incapable of doing anything else when she used that voice. She climbed into bed beside him, pulling the covers up to her chin, and settled against the pillow like she belonged there.
"Sophie—"
"Shh." She turned on her side, facing him. Even in the dark, he could see the shine of her eyes. "It's cold in my room."
"That's a lie."
"Maybe." She reached out, found his hand under the blankets, laced her fingers through his. "But you're warm."
His throat tightened. "This is insane."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it is."
She was quiet for a moment. Her thumb traced circles on the back of his hand.
"I'm not looking for anything serious," she said softly. "I don't want to date you. I don't want to be your girlfriend. I just—" She paused. "I saw you in that hallway, and I wanted you. That's all. It doesn't have to mean anything."
Marcus's heart cracked a little. "That's not—"
"You're about to say it's not that simple." She smiled. Even in the dark, he could see it. "But it is. We're two adults. We're attracted to each other. We live in the same house. What we do about it is our choice."
"It's a bad choice."
"Probably."
He exhaled. Long. Slow. "This is going to end badly."
"Probably that too."
She moved closer. Tucked her head against his chest. Her hair smelled like jasmine, and her body was warm and soft and everything he'd tried not to want. His arms came around her without permission from his brain.
"Just sleep," she whispered. "We'll figure out the rest later."
Later. The word echoed through him like a promise. Like a threat.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would regret this. Tomorrow, he would panic and avoid her and try to convince himself that none of it had happened. Tomorrow, everything would be complicated again.
But tonight, he held her.