The fridge light buzzed against the silence. Midnight air clung to my skin, thick with summer heat and something harder to name. I stood there shirtless, in boxers, sipping straight from a water bottle and telling myself not to think about her again.
Lena.
My wife’s little sister.
Twenty-one. Sharp-tongued. Sun-kissed thighs. Always in this damn house now—eating with us, stretching on our couch, walking around in tank tops without a bra, talking like she didn’t know what she was doing.
Or maybe she did.
I tightened my grip on the bottle and leaned against the counter. My wife was asleep upstairs. Out cold. I knew her breathing patterns well enough to bet the house.
So I was safe.
Until I heard the soft patter of bare feet.
Lena.
Hair messy. Tank top twisted high above her hips. Pa
