Chapter 4
FOUR
CALEB
I can still feel it.
Can still feel him.
Every pulse, every tremor from the tension between us. My chest is tight, my stomach is rolling, and my hands won’t stop shaking. I hate myself for it. For trembling like a kid. For letting him get under my skin so easily.
I pace my room, sneakers squeaking against the floor. My jersey lies crumpled on the bed, damp all down the back. Every time I close my eyes, I see his mask, the neon blue X’s, and the way he pressed against me and whispered into my ear.
I hate him.
I hate that I want him.
I slam my fist into the wall once. Pain flares in my knuckles and down into my wrist. But it’s not enough.
I need more.
I need him.
God, why does my body betray me? Why does every nerve ending remember the weight of his chest, the graze of his thigh, and the way his lips brushed my skin like he’d been waiting years for permission I didn’t even know I could give?
And I think about Dad. Just imagining what he’d do if I ever said it out loud—if I admitted to anything.
Not that I would. Never. He’d explode. He’d lecture.
He’d ask questions I couldn’t answer. Worse, he’d look at Miguel like he was the problem, like my brother isn’t someone I could ever want in this way.
I press my hands to my face.
Breathe. In, hold. Out, control.
But it’s no use.
I’m fourteen again.
No—ten. Miguel’s twelve. Stepbrothers by accident, a match made by our parents and circumstance. A built-in best friend, our parents would say.
I remember the first day I realized he wasn’t just another kid in the house.
He shoved me into the wall in the kitchen, laughing because I tripped on his skateboard.
His elbows were sharp against my ribs, and instead of hitting back, I froze.
Something about the way he looked at me then—like he knew something I didn’t—is burned into my memory.
Over the years, every fight, every scuffle, every accidental brush of his hand became a spark.
He crowded me, teased me, and dared me. I pretended not to notice, pretended it was all normal sibling rivalry, but I always felt the heat—always felt my body gravitating toward him in ways I couldn’t explain.
Near-kisses, almost-touching. Times when we argued in his room, and I caught him looking at me too long. Times when our hands brushed, and I jerked away, angry at myself for feeling what I felt. He always smirked like he knew something I wouldn’t admit even to myself.
And then that night. The night before I left for college.
I remember it perfectly.
He was leaning against my closet door, with that look in his eyes that made my stomach clench. I was half-packed and sweaty from the panic of leaving and the awkwardness of saying goodbye to everyone, and he didn’t care.
He just watched me.
“Ever kissed anyone before?” His voice was soft and teasing, but there was an edge under it. Something dangerous.
He already knew the answer to that. Even though we were both on sports teams in high school, he was way more outgoing than I was. I had issues that prevented me from making moves on… anyone.
I swallowed hard, breathless, heart hammering. “No.”
He nodded, like he’d expected it, like it confirmed some unspoken knowledge. “You’re gonna need to know how to do it in college,” he said in a low and casual voice. “You’ll thank me for this later.”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to shove him. I wanted to run. But my legs were rooted. My throat was dry. My chest tightened.
And then he moved.
He turned away for a second, like he was going to leave, and I exhaled, relieved, thinking it was over.
But he didn’t leave.
He turned back, slow and deliberate, and pressed his lips to mine.
At first, it was gentle. Hesitant, testing, teasing. But then—Tongue sliding over mine, slow, urgent, demanding, pressing into me as if he’d been storing up years of want.
I froze. My hands found his shoulders, gripping, trembling. My stomach flipped. My legs shook. My shorts tightened in ways I didn’t want to think about.
Then he pulled back, eyes dark and unreadable.
“There. Now you know how,” he said, and turned, leaving the room like it had been nothing, like he hadn’t just set me on fire.
I turned and sank against the closet door, hands on my knees, heart still pounding. Hard under my shorts, confused, ashamed. Confused because I wanted it. Ashamed because I knew I shouldn’t.
I’m curled on my bed, hands wrapped around my knees. Every muscle in me aches. My chest is damp and my stomach flips just thinking about him—the smell of his hair, the scrape of the mask on my cheek, the way his hands pinned me against the wall and made me forget how to breathe.
I want to scream. I want to throw something. I want to cry and laugh and beg.
All at once.
But I don’t.
I can’t. Because he’s my brother. Step or not. He’s been in my life since I was eight. He’s not supposed to make me feel this way. I’m not supposed to imagine him in my bed, on top of me, whispering filthy promises that curl in my chest and make my knees weak.
And yet…
I remember his hands on me, grinding. The weight of him. The whispering in my ear. “Mine already.”
The words echo in my head, louder than the music downstairs, louder than anything else. I bury my face in the pillow, trying to scream into it. Trying to push it all away.
But the memories come faster now. The fights, the scuffles, the teasing, the laughter. Every moment he’s been close enough to touch, every accidental brush, every stare that lingered too long.
I think about his lips that night before I left for college.
Slow, urgent, demanding. Tongue sliding.
That moment when the world stopped, and it was just him, just me, and the impossible tension that had been building for years.
I remember the feeling of my dick getting hard, the confusion, the frustration, and the shame.
And now, with him in the mask, grinding against me in the hallway, whispering filth, it all comes back. Stronger. Impossible to ignore.
I can’t tell anyone. I can’t say a word.
Dad would never understand, never forgive, and never stop lecturing about morality, about boundaries, and about decency.
My friends at college would laugh—or worse, look at me differently because he’s my stepbrother.
And Miguel… I don’t even want to imagine what he would do if I admitted how much I crave him.
Though part of me thinks he wants me too. Why else would he push me the way he does?
My hands dig into my hair. I get up and pace again, like movement can burn away the ache in my chest. But it doesn’t.
It never does.
I glance at the basketball shorts on the chair and the jersey crumpled on the bed. Memories collide with the smell of the party still in the fabric, the sweat, the heat, and the scent of him.
I’m angry with myself. How can I be trembling, moaning in secret, remembering and wanting and hating all at once?
I shouldn’t want him.
I can’t want him. And yet my body doesn’t lie, just like it didn’t then, just like it didn’t tonight.
Every memory fractures me. Every touch, every word, every whispered taunt—mine already—reminds me of just how fucked I am.
I slump onto the bed, rocking slightly. I try to ground myself. Breathe. Focus. Count backward from a hundred. But the image of his face, the feel of his weight, the heat of his mouth, and the sin of wanting him interrupts every count.
And then I realize it’s not just a memory anymore. It’s anticipation. He’s going to come back for me. He’s always going to come back for me. The thought should terrify me, and it does. But somewhere, in the pit of my stomach, it also makes me ache in ways I can’t admit.
I fall back onto the bed and bury my face in the pillow again. My chest heaves. My hands clutch the sheets. My legs shake. I’m a mess.
A mess that’s entirely his.
And I can’t stop thinking about what will happen when I leave this room.
Because I know he’s waiting.