His fingers hover near my cheek.
Close.
Too close.
My skin prickles under the weight of his stare, and I swear I feel the air between us shifts. The pool water laps softly behind us, but I don't hear it. All I hear is my pulse—fast, frantic, and traitorous.
"Tell me to stop," Andrew whispers, his voice barely louder than the breeze.
But I don't.
I can't.
Because the truth is, I don't want him to stop.
I want to know what his lips feel and tastes like.
I want to know what happens when we stop pretending this tension is just a joke, or a phase, or something I can just shrug off with a smart-ass remark.
I want—
"Penelope!"
My mom's voice cuts through the stillness like a blade.
I jolt back, bumping into the lounger, blinking fast like I've just woken up from a fever dream.
Andrew's hand drops. His jaw tightens.
We don't say anything. We just stare at each other for a second longer, both of us stunned, guilty, and breathless.
"Penelope, are you outside again? Andrew? Nicholas? It's almost dinner, can someone help me with the damn salad?"
That pulls me the rest of the way back to reality.
I stand up too fast, brushing my hands on my shorts even though there's nothing on them. Andrew rises too, slower, his body tall and shadowed in the dusk light. I can feel the tension still buzzing between us like static.
But we say nothing.
We walk back toward the house like two strangers instead of two people who almost crossed a line we can't uncross.
Inside, the lights feel too bright, too normal.
My mom is busy bustling around in the kitchen, her tone sharp and irritated. Dad is on his tablet at the dining table. Nick's feet are kicked up on the couch, half-asleep with a controller resting on his chest.
And here I am, still flushed from a kiss that nearly happened with my brother's best friend, pretending like I'm not vibrating with pent-up energy.
"Can you grab the drinks from the garage fridge?" Mom asks me without looking up.
I nod silently and step past Andrew, who lingers by the entryway like he's debating whether to bolt or stay.
Neither of us say a word.
I pass him in the hallway, our shoulders almost brushing. Every nerve in my body sparks like a live wire. I don't even breathe until I reach the door to the garage and let it swing shut behind me.
It's quiet out here. Too quiet. The hum of the fridge is the only sound, and still, it's louder than the thoughts banging around in my skull.
What the hell was that back there?
His look. His touch. That almost kiss.
They do something to me.
My fingers shake slightly as I grab the lemonade pitcher and a few sodas. I press the cold glass to my cheek, trying to cool the heat still blooming across my face.
I've always known Andrew was attractive. The kind of hot that gets girls to bend over backward, change outfits three times before seeing him, flirt with zero shame.
But I never let myself go there with him.
Because he was Nick's best friend.
Because he was younger.
Because my mom would actually set me on fire if she even suspected it.
But now?
Now, I don't think I can go back to pretending.
When I return, Andrew's already at the table, sitting next to Nick like he belongs there. Like nothing happened. Like I didn't almost lose control by a goddamn pool lounger in my mom's backyard.
My dad's scrolling through something on his tablet, looking bored. Mom's plating grilled chicken with that tight-lipped expression she always gets when she's almost mad, but pretending she isn't.
I place the drinks down and move to sit only to freeze when I hear my mom's voice.
"Penelope, did you use my face serum again?"
I blink. "What?"
She doesn't look at me. "The fancy one in the white bottle. You left the cap loose again."
I barely manage not to roll my eyes. "No, I didn't use it."
She turns. "Are you sure? Because this isn't the first time it's gone missing."
"Maybe you forgot you used it."
That was the wrong answer.
She glares. "I know what I use. It's $98, Penelope."
"And I'm drowning in student debt," I snap, sitting down harder than I need to. "I'm not stealing your damn serum, Mom."
Nick whistles low under his breath. "Here we go…"
"Language," my mom bites back automatically, but her eyes are still locked on me. "There's no need to get defensive. I just don't like feeling like I can't trust my own daughter in my house."
I clench my jaw. "This isn't your house alone. It's our house. Or did you forget I lived here for eighteen years before you turned my room into a yoga dungeon?"
That hits a nerve. Her lips press into a thin line.
Andrew clears his throat softly, but he doesn't say anything. Smart boy.
"I asked you to bring the drinks, not the attitude," my mom says finally, voice ice-cold.
And just like that, dinner begins.
Everyone eats. No one speaks. The tension clings to the tablecloth like humidity.
I try to focus on chewing. On not crying. On not letting my mom get to me like she always does. But something about being home always makes me feel like I'm thirteen again—awkward, and defensive. I hate it.
I glance across the table. Andrew's already watching me.
And there it is again—that look.
Not pity.
Not amusement.
Understanding.
He knows how my mom is. He's seen it. He's heard the way she picks me apart like she's building a better version of me in her head and resents that I'm not it.
And somehow, that look feels more intimate than anything we almost did earlier.
After dinner, I escape to the porch with a glass of lemonade, needing air, needing space. I fold myself onto the porch swing, staring into the twilight, my toes brushing the cool wood floor.
The screen door creaks behind me.
I don't have to turn to know who it is.
Andrew sits beside me, just far enough that we aren't touching but close enough that I feel it. Him.
"I didn't know she was like that," he says quietly.
"She wasn't always." I trace the edge of my glass with a fingertip. "It got worse after I left for college. Like... she didn't know what to do without me to criticize."
"That's messed up."
"Yeah," I whisper. "But it's normal. At least for me."
A pause.
Then, "You okay?"
I nod, but it's not convincing. "You ever just feel like... no matter how much you grow, your family only sees who you were at your worst?"
"Yeah," he says, voice low. "All the time."
I turn my head to look at him. "Really?"
He nods once. "My dad thinks I'm wasting my life fixing bikes, riding fast, and skipping a four-year degree. Says I'll end up in a ditch or prison."
"Jesus."
Andrew shrugs. "I'm used to it."
We sit in silence.
The night hums with crickets. A breeze brushes against my skin, lifting the hem of my tee slightly. I pull my knees up onto the swing.
Andrew shifts. "That text earlier... it freaked you out."
My heart skips. "You saw that?"
"You looked like you saw a ghost."
I hesitate. "It was just someone I used to know. It's nothing important."
He doesn't push, but I know he doesn't believe me.
Good.
Because I'm not ready to talk about him. Not yet.
"What about you?" I ask, needing to change the subject. "You've been quiet. You okay?"
He huffs a soft laugh. "I almost kissed you today, Penny."
My throat dries.
"I've wanted to do that for years," he adds, like it's nothing. Like it's everything.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because you're Nick's sister."
I turn to him fully now. "And?"
"And if I do it once, I won't stop."
My heart stutters.
Andrew leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking away from me like the confession cost him something.
"I can't just mess around with you," he says. "Not when it's you."
The porch light flickers above us. Somewhere inside, a dish clinks in the sink. I should get up. I should thank him. I should go inside and lock my door and pretend this isn't happening.
But instead, I ask the one thing I shouldn't.
"What if I don't want you to stop?"
He looks at me. Stunned.
And for one breathless second, I see it, the war in his eyes. The part of him that wants to run away from me. And the part that wants to ruin us both.
But instead of acting on it, he stands.
"Goodnight, Penny."
And then he's gone.
Leaving me breathless on the porch swing, my heart pounding like I just jumped off a cliff and... i liked it.