Sin of the Season

Chapter 1 Caleb

ONE

CALEB

The snow’s been getting thicker for the last half hour, coating the pines until they look like something out of a postcard. The wipers beat a slow rhythm against the glass, and Miguel hums along under his breath, soft and tuneless, his gloved fingers tapping the steering wheel.

We’ve been on the road for almost four and a half hours, and my legs are getting twitchy. The heater’s turned up too high, and I’ve already stripped off my hoodie, leaving me in just a long-sleeved thermal and the faded jeans Miguel keeps saying are too tight.

He only says that because they distract him.

“Fifteen minutes,” he says, glancing at the GPS like he doesn’t already know.

I smirk. “You’ve said that like three times now. I’m starting to think we’re lost.”

He gives me a side-eye, the kind that makes my stomach dip. “Well, you keep asking how long until we get there. We’re not lost.”

“Right,” I sigh, stretching to bring some blood flow to my legs and now numb ass.

His mouth twitches—that half-smile that still kills me every damn time. “You getting cranky, baby? I can pull over and… uh… stretch you out real quick?”

“No.” I nudge his thigh with my knee. “Just stop driving like an old man and get us there.”

Miguel laughs, low and warm, and it fills the cab like heat. “You saying that ‘cause you’re bored or because you want to see if I really will pull over and give you what you’ve been begging for since we left Santa Cruz?”

The words hit like a spark, sliding down my spine. I look out the window to hide the flush, pretending to focus on the falling snow. “Definitely the boredom,” I mutter.

Lie.

He makes a noise that’s all disbelief and promise.

To fill the silence, I reach for my phone, then side-eye him. “If I put on music, you’re not gonna sing with me, are you?”

“Depends. What kind of music are we talkin’ about?”

“Christmas,” I say, grinning when he groans. “C’mon, Miggy, it’s December. You can’t not.”

“I can,” he says, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Pick one I actually know.”

I scroll through the playlist until I find “Last Christmas.” The opening notes fill the truck, bright and obnoxious, and I start singing immediately—off-key and loud, because it makes him laugh.

Miguel shakes his head, eyes on the road, but I catch the softening in his face—the look that tells me he’s not thinking about the snow or the drive or how quiet we’ve both been since meeting up at our parents’ house last night.

“Your voice is shit,” he says when I hit the chorus.

“Rude. You just don’t like Wham!”

“Can’t argue with the truth, baby.” He lets out a sigh. “There is a reason we play sports and don’t sing.”

I crank the volume higher, singing even louder until he gives in and joins me on the second verse, both of us butchering the song and laughing so hard the windows fog up more.

For a few minutes, it’s easy. It’s stupid and normal and so fucking far from what either of us ever thought we’d have.

We’re still step siblings… but so much more now.

When the song ends, I turn the volume down and let the silence come back. The laughter fades, replaced by something quieter. He reaches over, his gloved hand finding the back of my neck. A small squeeze, grounding and sure.

“Almost there,” he says again, softer this time. “I promise.”

The truck crunches to a stop on the snow-packed driveway, the tires kicking up a shit ton of powder. I stare out through the windshield at the A-frame cabin—dark wood, steep roofline, complete with a chimney. Pine trees crowd close, heavy with snow.

“It’s so cute,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

Miguel snorts. “Cute?”

“Yeah,” I say, grinning at him. “Like... Movie cute. You know, a cozy couple trapped in a snowstorm, kind of cute.”

He raises a brow, still half-smiling. “You planning on getting us trapped?”

“Depends on how the weekend goes.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he climbs out. The cold hits hard when I open my door, biting at my face, but it smells clean—fresh pine and wood smoke. By the time I grab our bags, Miguel’s already at the tailgate, hauling out a cooler and three big Tupperware containers.

I squint. “Please tell me that’s not all food.”

“It’s food,” he says matter-of-factly, stacking them in his arms. “Mom made tamales, birria, arroz, champurrado—everything.”

I blink. “You… brought Christmas dinner?”

He shrugs, not even pretending to be embarrassed. “You thought I was just gonna let us starve out here? Of course I brought food. Even popcorn for movies.”

Inside, the cabin’s even warmer than it looks from the outside—thick beams, a stone fireplace, and big windows looking out over the white forest. He sets the food on the counter while I drop our bags near the stairs.

“Mom really went all out,” I say, watching him start to unpack the cooler, his movements easy and familiar. “Guess she wasn’t too upset we wouldn’t be home.”

“Nah, she said we deserve a break,” Miguel says, opening the fridge. “To get away for a little bit. Especially you.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Dad didn’t exactly say that. Pretty sure he’s still annoyed that we’re not gonna be there Christmas morning.”

“I just don’t understand why you need to go away for Christmas. The holidays are about family, Caleb, not for you and Miggy to go up to the mountains and what, get stoned and watch movies?”

Miguel glances at me over his shoulder, mouth twitching because he sees me lost in my head. “He’ll live.”

He’d shit bricks if he knew what was really gonna go down here. I’m pretty sure his son and stepson fucking each other isn’t on that list.

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “Your mom didn’t even blink when you said we’d be spending Christmas together. You know anything about that?”

Miguel closes the fridge slowly and turns toward me. “Nope.” His right eyebrow rises slightly.

Liar, liar.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

“You are,” I say, stepping closer. “Did you tell her… that we’ve been… I dunno, talking more?”

His smile deepens, smug and secretive. “I haven’t said anything. Maybe she just trusts me to make good decisions.”

“Uh-huh.” I tilt my head. “Like bringing your stepbrother to a cabin alone in the snow?”

He smirks. “Best decision I’ve made all year. Well, except for chasing you on Halloween, then fucking your brains out.”

He went there.

The words hang there between us, sharp and warm. I look away first, pretending to check the window, the snow starting to come down heavier.

“Oh, and then sucking your dick in the corn maze.”

“Alright,” I turn around, ready to pounce on him to get him to stop talking.

“You were the best decision I made all year, Caleb.”

Fuck, he sounds like he really means it.

By the time we finish unpacking, the world outside’s gone white.

Afternoon light fades early up here, the cabin glows gold in contrast. I crouch by the fireplace, stacking logs until the first flames catch, and when I stand, Miguel’s already sprawled on the couch, arm draped along the backrest like he owns the place.

I grab a blanket from the basket and join him. The fire pops, and Christmas music plays low from the speaker—some soft guitar version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Miguel pulls me close without a word, my back fitting against his chest, his breath warm against my neck. For a while, we just sit there. And we’re enveloped in the quiet that doesn’t feel heavy but lets you breathe.

“I’m happy you asked me to come with you,” I say finally.

He hums, lips brushing my hair. “There’s nobody else I’d rather be with, pretty boy.”

The nickname still gets me every time, there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s claiming it.

Me.

I’m his pretty boy.

When I turn to look at him, he meets me halfway. The kiss starts soft, just a press of lips, but it deepens quickly, like always. His hand slides up my jaw, tilts my face to his, and teases my tongue until my breath catches.

I end up half in his lap, the blanket sliding off, his fingers tracing the edge of my shirt, just enough to make me shiver. The rhythm of it slows, then builds again, unhurried but charged. My hips roll before I can think about it, friction catching through the denim.

He groans into my mouth, low and wrecked.

That sound undoes me.

The fire crackles louder, heat rising, our breath fogging between kisses.

I feel him press closer, the weight of him against me making it impossible to think straight.

His hands aren’t gentle; they’re claiming, teasing, urgent, and I melt against him, letting go of all the tension I’ve carried for weeks.

Exams, therapy sessions, and basketball.

Gone. The couch is warm, the fire spilling light across his face, and I can’t stop staring at the way his lips move, the little smirk when he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You like that, huh?”

“Mhmm,” I murmur, my voice thick, almost a whine.

He laughs softly against my ear, and it makes something coil tight in my stomach. One hand slides under my shirt, cold fingertips brushing the ridges of my ribs, teasing over the sensitive skin just above my hip. I arch into it, and the friction makes my jeans feel suddenly too tight.

His other hand drifts lower, pressing against the front of my jeans, fingers curling over the waistband. “God, you’re so warm,” he breathes. “I bet you’re ready for me, aren’t you, pretty boy?”

I can’t stop the shiver that runs through me, the heat spreading down between my legs.

My hands grip his shoulders, trying to ground myself, but he tilts his hips, grinding just enough to make my thighs tighten.

The feeling is unbearable in the best way, every press and roll of his hips making me ache.