I hadn't even been home five minutes before I knew something had changed.
Not the house itself — it still smelled faintly like wood polish and old money, sunlight spilling across polished floors. No, it was the feeling. The shift in the air, like the walls were keeping a secret.
Then I heard laughter. Soft, feminine, nothing like the stern quiet my father usually brought into a room.
I rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped cold.
She was there.
My father's new wife.
She was standing on tiptoe, reaching for something on the top shelf, a white tank top riding up her back to reveal a slice of smooth skin. Her hair fell over one shoulder, long and glossy, catching the light like a waterfall.
When she finally tugged the box down, she turned — and her eyes landed on me.
"Oh! You must be Ethan." Her voice was warm, playful, a little breathless. She set the box on the counter and wiped her hands on her shorts, which were scandalously tiny. "Your father told me so much about you."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Because up close, she was even more beautiful. Way younger than I expected — maybe late twenties. Wide brown eyes, full lips, curves that made my chest tighten in ways I didn't want to admit.
And she was my stepmother.
She stepped closer, smiling like we were old friends. "I'm Tessa."
Then, without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around me.
I went stiff. Her body pressed against mine — soft, warm, smelling faintly of vanilla and sunshine. I didn't move until she pulled back, still grinning.
"Wow. You're even taller than your father. And… god, I feel like a little kid next to you."
My face heated. I cleared my throat. "Yeah, uh… I guess I've shot up since last summer."
She tilted her head, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse stutter. "I'll say. He showed me photos, but they didn't do you justice."
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. A moment later, my dad appeared, looking exactly as always — expensive watch, sharp suit even at home, eyes that rarely betrayed anything.
"There you are," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Good trip?"
I nodded. "Long."
Tessa slipped her arm around his waist. It was such a casual thing, but the way she did it — sliding her hand under his jacket, pressing her cheek to his arm — made my stomach twist.
He kissed the top of her head, barely, like a habit. Then he turned back to me. "Dinner at seven. Try to look awake by then."
When they left the kitchen, I sank onto a stool, rubbing my hands over my face.
Get it together. She's your stepmother now. Just a woman. Just a woman married to your father.
My brain didn't buy it. Not with the way her laugh still echoed in my head. Or how her hug had left a phantom warmth across my chest.
The next few hours blurred by. Unpacking. A quick shower. Staring at myself in the mirror way too long, trying to ignore how tense I looked.
By dinner, I'd mostly convinced myself it was fine. Just dinner with Dad and his new wife. I'd survived worse awkwardness.
Except dinner was anything but awkward.
Tessa kept the conversation light, asked about my classes, my friends, what music I was into. She laughed at my jokes, complimented my watch, even offered me a second helping of garlic bread with a playful little wink.
Every time her hand brushed mine reaching for a glass or the salt, I felt it like a brand.
At one point, she shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, and I swear my brain short-circuited. Her foot slid under the table, accidentally nudging mine. When I didn't move, she didn't either.
I glanced up. Her eyes were already on me. Soft. Curious. Something else.
I quickly dropped my gaze to my plate, heart hammering.
Afterward, my dad disappeared into his study, muttering about emails. Tessa stood to clear the dishes
.
"Leave it," I blurted. "I'll help."
Her smile bloomed. "That's sweet of you."
Together, we moved around the kitchen, washing and drying. At one point she handed me a dripping glass, her fingers lingering on mine. My breath caught. So did hers.
"Sorry," she whispered, though she didn't let go immediately.
"It's fine." My voice was hoarse. "Just slippery."
When she finally stepped back, her laugh was soft. Nervous. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and didn't quite meet my eyes.
We finished in silence, the air charged with something I couldn't name.
When it was done, she stood there for a beat longer, as if she wanted to say something. Then she turned and walked away, hips swaying slightly in those tiny shorts.
I watched her go.
I shouldn't have.
But I did.
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling for hours. Listening for the sound of her laugh, her footsteps, anything. My body ached in ways I couldn't admit.
And deep down, something ugly and thrilling twisted in my chest.
She's married to your father.
But god help you… you wanted her anyway.