(Recommended song: "Play with Fire" — Sam Tinnesz)
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They said moving in with my mom's new husband would be a fresh start.
They never mentioned his son.
Dante.
Even his name sounds like trouble — the kind that walks into a room and everyone looks up.
Not because they like him, but because they're wondering what he'll destroy next.
He's rude, loud, and has girls showing up like it's a revolving door.
And since the day he moved in, this house hasn't had a second of peace.
---
I was half-asleep when the first scream hit.
> "Oh my God—Dante—don't stop!"
Yeah. That kind of scream.
I groaned, pulled my pillow over my head, and muffled a curse.
Ever since he arrived, I've been living next to a live broadcast of his sex life.
My mom pretends she doesn't hear anything — my stepdad too.
But the walls here are paper-thin, and I've heard more moaning than a ghost in a haunted house.
By the time the noise died down, the sun was already up.
My eyes were burning, and my patience had packed up and left.
> "I swear," I muttered, dragging myself out of bed,
"one more night of this and I'm moving out."
---
I grabbed my towel and stormed toward the bathroom —
a shared one, thanks to my mom's brilliant idea of "blended family bonding."
Worst. Idea. Ever.
The doorknob turned easily.
Big mistake.
Because the moment the door opened, I came face-to-face with… him.
Dante.
Wet hair. Bare chest.
Towel low enough to be illegal.
For a second, I just stood there like an idiot, my brain lagging behind reality.
Then I realized I was staring — and he knew it.
His mouth tilted in that lazy smirk I already hated.
> "You planning to stand there all day,
or did you just come to watch?"
I blinked. "Do you ever lock the damn door?"
> "Do you ever knock?" he shot back, eyes glinting with amusement.
"You're disgusting."
He leaned against the counter, towel hanging too loosely for my sanity.
> "And yet, you're still standing here."
My jaw clenched. "You're delusional."
> "Maybe. But you're still looking."
Heat rose in my face — part anger, part… something else I didn't want to name.
"Move," I snapped. "I need to shower."
> "Then say please."
God, I hated him. The way he spoke. The way he looked at me.
The way he acted like he could see straight through my walls.
"Please," I bit out, just to get him out of my way.
He didn't move.
Instead, he stepped closer — close enough that I could smell the mix of soap and arrogance on his skin.
His voice dropped, low and sharp.
> "You know what's funny? You act like you hate me,
but your body says otherwise."
My breath caught. "You're insane."
> "Maybe." His smirk deepened. "But at least I'm not pretending."
---
I shoved past him, slamming the door behind me.
My hands were shaking. Not from fear — from fury.
From the fact that every word that came out of his mouth made my pulse go haywire.
I leaned against the door, trying to breathe.
The house went quiet again, but his voice still echoed in my head.
He's my stepbrother, I reminded myself.
He's off-limits. He's toxic.
---
But later that night, lying in bed, I couldn't sleep.
My heart wouldn't calm down, and my thoughts wouldn't stop circling back
to that smirk — those eyes — that voice.
Then I heard it.
A knock.
One. Soft. On my wall.
I froze.
A pause, then his voice came through the thin barrier, quiet and taunting.
> "You can hate me all you want, Elira," he said.
"But I know you're thinking about me."
I wanted to scream that he was wrong.
That he made my skin crawl.
That I'd rather die than think about him.
But when I finally fell asleep...
He was the first thing I dreamed of.
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