The way he didn’t move away.
I feel heat rise under my skin.
No.
No. Absolutely not.
This is wrong. It’s fucked. It can’t even exist inside my head.
I grab the nearest object—my fist—and slam it into the mirror.
The glass cracks, splintering like a spiderweb. My reflection fractures into a dozen pieces.
Good.
I don’t want to see myself right now.
My knuckles throb, blood beading, but the pain feels grounding. Real. Safe compared to whatever the hell is happening in my chest.
“Get it together,” I hissed at myself.
He’s my stepbrother now.
Mybrother.
And whatever happened out there—whatever almost happened—will never, ever happen again.
I don’t want him.
I don’t think about him.
I don’t replay that night in the woods.
I don’t remember how he looked lying in the dirt, or the sound he made when he realized he wasn’t alone, or the way my heart slammed against my ribs at the sight of him.
I don’t want to know why the hell the image still gets to me.
Why the hell does he gets to me.
I take one more swallow of whiskey, sharp and fast, like punishment.
I’m not gay.
I don’t want him.
And whatever mistake almost slipped between us outside—
That was nothing.
A fluke.
A slip.
A moment I’ll bury so deep I’ll forget the color of his eyes when he thought I was going to kiss him.
I steady my breathing.
I force the thoughts away.
