As I step out of the bathroom, the steam holds me tight, a warm, wet veil that makes the chilly bedroom air sting against my exposed limbs. The hairdryer's faint drone still echoes in my ears, gradually giving way to the steady pulse of my own heartbeat. My satin nightgown, a wine red color chosen deliberately, grazes my thighs as I walk, its cool, sleek surface a sharp contrast to the warmth still pouring off my, just showered skin. I had taken my time tonight, letting the hot water cloud the mirror, drying my hair into soft waves that cascaded down my back, and rubbing lotion into my skin until it felt smooth as glass under my fingers. I told myself it was just a way to relax after that unbearable dinner, but even I did not buy the excuse. Somewhere inside, I knew he would show up: Austin. I had sensed it all night in the fleeting, cautious glances he had thrown my way across the table, even with her (his so - called girlfriend) right there, her laugh too shrill, her grip on his arm too territorial, as if she had any true hold over him.
The bedroom is dark when I enter, lit only by a sliver of silver sneaking through the curtains from the streetlight, moonlight and the sea sparkles that were made out of the stars of the night - blue sky outside. I pause near the door, letting my eyes adjust, my bare feet sinking into the thick rug. My heart beats faster, not from nerves but from something deeper, something that has been simmering in me for months, maybe years. I feel him before I see him, the air growing dense and alive with his presence, like the room itself is waiting. Then I catch his outline: a figure leaning against the wall by my bed, arms folded, his form stark and solid against the dim glow. Austin.
For a moment, silence wraps around us, thick and pressing, making every nerve hum. My breath snags, a quiet stumble I do not even have the skills to mask, and I wonder if he notices, if he knows how long I have ached for this, how many nights I have lain awake picturing it. I do not step closer, not yet, just stand there, the satin sticking to my damp skin, my hair brushing my shoulders, letting him take me in. I want him to look. I want him to see what he has refused to acknowledge, what he has tried to smother beneath that icy wall he has kept up since he arrived.
"Why are you here?" I ask at last, my voice calm and low, though my pulse races beneath it. I tilt my head, letting a lock of hair fall across my face, catching that faint light to pull his gaze. It is a calculated move, rehearsed in my thoughts, a quiet game I have mastered, and I am skilled at it, more than he realizes.
He shifts, unfolding his arms, and even in the shadows, I feel his eyes roam over me, slow and intentional.
"You already know why…" he says…
His voice is rougher than usual, like stones worn raw by something he cannot voice. I ofcourse know why he is in my bedroom instead of his, in the middle of the late night… He decided to come and light up my night, because I have luminated his imagination when we were having dinner earlier: I have sent him some inappropriate pictures of mine, freshly taken for him. (I know that is a cheap shot but I am that desperate.) Bute it lead me to where I wanted to go; there is a break in it finally, a chink in the armor he's always worn, and it sends a shiver through me, a rush I can't hold back.
"Do I?" I take a step forward, testing him, my nightgown swaying, the hem brushing my skin in a way that feels almost too personal. I think I see his jaw clench, a flash of something (frustration, desire, control) flickering across his shadowed face.
"Because last I checked, your girlfriend's asleep in your bed. Or is she awake, wondering where you have gone?"
He does not respond right away, letting the silence pull tight between us. Then he steps off the wall, narrowing the gap, and the air crackles, alive against my skin like a brewing storm. I catch his scent now: cedar and soap, crisp and fresh, laced with a hint of the wine he drank at dinner and it is obvious that he drank cognac before he came to my room; the oddly igniting smell of his breath gives me it all… A smell that's lingered in my mind since the first time it hit me. My stomach knots, desire tangled with bitterness, and I hate how much I want it, how much I have always wanted him, even when I told myself I did not.
"You should not have sent those photos." he says…
His tone is sharp, but there is an edge beneath it, something unsteady that gives him away. He is not just mad. He is shaken, which is exactly what I aimed for when I kept sending them during that agonizing dinner.
I smirk, lifting my chin to meet his shadowed gaze, his eyes glinting faintly in the dark. I take a step to close the gap between us before I give him a response. I inhale his breath and he inhales mine in that position.
"You didn't have to open them."
"I didn't want to." he bites back, but it's a flimsy lie, cracking as it falls, and we both hear it break. His deep voice that gives my heart a hump gives him away.
He steps closer, near enough now that I have to tilt my head to hold his stare, near enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
"You are playing a dangerous game, Aurora."
"Am I?" My voice drops, teasing and low, and I let my fingers skim the edge of my nightgown, drawing his eyes down for a split second before they flick back up. "Or maybe you're the one who cannot take it. Maybe I am the game Austin, huh?"
He lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but it is threaded with tension, a sound that hums through the shrinking space between us.
"You think this is a joke? Some kind of play?"
"Isn't it?" I counter, closing the distance until we are barely apart. My heart is hammering, loud enough I am sure he hears it, but I do not care. I have wanted this, wanted him, too long to keep pretending it has nothing, to let him dodge it.
"You have been avoiding me since you got here, acting like I do not exist, like I do not matter. But I am not invisible, Austin, and neither is this."
His eyes narrow, and for a second, I think he'll leave, like he has done before when things get too real, but he does not. He stands there, hands twitching at his sides like he is fighting the urge to reach out, to cross a boundary he's set for himself.
"You are my cousin," he says.
The words are weighty and intentional, as if he is trying to ground himself with them.
"Step cousin!"
I correct, my tone slicing through his defense.
"And do not pretend that is what holds you back. We both know it is not. It never was."
He flinches, just slightly, but I see it, and I know I have hit something buried deep. I have always known how to get to him, ever since Aunt Caitlyn married Jerome and Austin stepped into this house, this life, like it was his more than mine. I had just finished college then, still reeling from my parents' death in that wreck, still stitching myself back together under Caitlyn's overbearing care. She had taken charge of everything: my money, my life, my future, like I was hers to fix. And then Austin arrived, older and intense, with his graduate studies and quiet, simmering presence, sharing this space while he studied nearby.
I despised him at first, hated how he made me feel noticed and ignored in the same breath, how he filled the house with something I couldn't define. I'd catch him looking sometimes, his gaze lingering too long before he'd turn away, his expression shutting down, but I felt it: the draw, the spark, the thing we would not be able to name. That hate morphed into something fierce and risky, and no matter how distant he acted, I saw it in him too, glowing faintly beneath the surface like a fire he could not douse.
"Aurora…" he says my name softer now, less a warning, more like a begging that he does not want to admit. He steps closer, and we are so near the tension coils tight, alive between us.
"What do you want from me?"
This is not an actual question. This is more likely a begging to get himself an excuse to fulfill his desires or close all the gates for him not to get in ever again. But there is one sure thing that I can say; he is purgatory in front of me. I can see how close he is to get at my feet.
I laugh, a sharp, bitter sound that escapes before I can stop it, edged with years of pent up longing.
"Don't act like you do not know. Admit it Austin; we both want the same thing right now.''
My hands itch to touch him, to feel his heartbeat racing beneath my fingers, but I wait, letting the moment stretch.
"I saw how you looked at me tonight, even with her all over you, acting like she has claimed you. You can fool yourself, Austin, but not me."
His jaw tightens, and I see the struggle: part of him pulling back, part of him drawn to me like he has always been.
"You are wrong…" he says.
But his voice is weak and faltering, and his eyes drop to my lips for a moment, giving him away.
"Am I?" I whisper, leaning in until my breath grazes his skin, warm and purposeful. The air between us buzzes, charged with everything unsaid, every stolen look.
"Then why are you here, Austin? Why aren't you with her, pretending nothing has changed?"
He doesn't answer, and that silence speaks louder than anything, heavier than any denial. I take it as my signal, my hand pressing to his chest, hesitant, then sure. His shirt is soft, but beneath it, his heart pounds, matching mine. He doesn't pull back, just stands there, breathing harder and unevenly.
"You shouldn't be here…" I say as I raise my sight to his eyes, teasing and daring, my fingers curling into his shirt.
"Not if you are so certain this is wrong."
"It is wrong…" he mutters, strained, but his hand lifts, pausing near my waist, hovering like he is scared to commit.
"You know it, Aurora. We both do."
I can feel the bitterness and desperation that he is going through from the tone of his voice. He does not speak like is pointing a fact; he speaks like he is complaining and seeking a way to get out of this relationship…
"Then go!"
I challenge him. My voice is sharp and quiet.
"Return to her. Act as if this never happened. Act as if you don't feel it. Get lost in her until morning and imagine she is me, even though you could really touch me yet keep denying yourself the chance, and knowing that I will be touching myself, dreaming about you and keep whispering your name in the meantime."
His hand shakes, then settles on my hip, light but loaded through the satin. My breath hitches, and I lean closer, my body moving faster than my thoughts. His touch sparks something: a fire that has burned low for all these years, and I feel it in him too, his grip tightening, his eyes darkening as they meet mine.
"I cannot…" he whispers, fractured confession, letting it all spill out.
"I have tried, every day since I got here, every time I see you."
"Then stop trying" I murmur, my hand sliding to his shoulder, pulling him in until we are almost one. Our faces are close now, his breath warm, the tension electric.
"Stop fighting, Austin. You are here. I am here. That's enough for the rest."
He groans, a raw, pained sound, and his other hand cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek with a softness that jars against the need in his gaze. "You don't know what you are asking." he says, but he is leaning in, his forehead to mine, surrendering to the pull we have been racing toward.
"I know exactly what I am asking."
I reply, my lips near his, tasting the wine, cognac and longing I have craved.
"And you do too. You always have."
We linger there, the world shrinking to just us: his hands on me, my heart wild, the air heavy with everything we have suppressed. My fingers weave into his hair, damp from the night, and he shudders under my touch. His breath falters, and I press closer, the satin sliding against him, the friction jolting me.
"Aurora…" he rasps, my name a desperate plea, his resistance crumbling as his fingers dig into my hip.
"You really have no idea." he says.
''Oh, believe me I do. Even if I don't, I am a big girl who can pay her own bills.''
''Really? I am no longer responsible then yet all I care about is-'' he talks like he is about to confess to me something but he stops all of a sudden.
''All you care about is?'' I say.
He immediately goes back to his poker face and brings back the ice cold walls between us.
''Good night Aurora. I came here to warn you, as your brother; sending nudes do not help you get where you want to.''
But I am hot enough to melt the walls down.
''You are not my brother Austin. A brother won't get hard after seeing those pictures.''
He looks at me in shock. His eyes are wide open.
''Don't look at me like that, you silly. Your reactions were broadcasting live as I kept sending you my pictures. You kept checking your phone every second with pure excitement, hoping to see another image…''
''You…'' he says and then gives a sigh.
I can sense that I am taking his shield. He nodes his head and then closes the gap, his lips meeting mine in a fierce, breathless rush that ignites me. It is chaotic and urgent, a breaking of walls, and I match it, fingers tight in his hair, body pressed to his. His hands move, one up my back, one at my waist, and I feel his heat through the fabric, the need in every grip. It is all I have dreamt and more: wild, alive, a moment that could undo us.
The story pauses here, balanced on a precipice, that kiss a fuse that might tie us together or blow us apart.