I spotted the red hoodie crumpled on the back of my desk chair, half buried under yesterday's jeans and a random sock. I grabbed it quickly and held it out to her like a peace offering.
"Mom gave it to me" I said, voice still rough from sleep and that kick to my side. "I had to go out with my friends yesterday and it was cold. She saw me heading out in just a thin jacket and basically shoved this into my hands. She Insisted I take it. I didn't even want it."
Bella's green eyes narrowed, lips pressing into that thin line she always got when she was deciding whether to believe me or explode anyway. For a second she just stared, arms still crossed under her chest, pushing those full D-cups up even higher against the tight white tank top. No bra, of course.
The outline of her nipples was clear through the fabric, two little points that made my throat dry even though I tried not to look. I failed, obviously. My eyes flicked down for half a second before I forced them back to her face.
She stepped closer, close enough that I caught the faint scent of her shampoo mixed with sleep-warm skin. Without a word she snatched the hoodie from my hand, fingers brushing mine roughly, and hugged it to her chest like I'd personally ruined it.
"Don't touch my stuff again" she snapped, voice low and sharp. "Ever."
Before I could open my mouth to apologize or explain more, her fist came up, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to knock the air out of me.
"Ugh..." A quick jab right into my gut, playful in her mind probably, but it still made me double over with a huff.
She spun on her heel, short black hair flicking with the movement, and walked out. Those red mini shorts clung to her like a second skin, riding up just enough with each step to show the bottom curve of her firm, round ass cheeks. The fabric stretched tight across them, shifting and swaying as her hips rolled with that natural, angry stride she had.
The milky skin of her thighs looked impossibly soft, and when she reached the doorway she paused just long enough for me to see the shorts had crept high enough on one side to flash a sliver of those white cotton panties again. Then she was gone, door closing firmly behind her.
"Great" she muttered loud enough to carry back into my room, "now I have to wash it again, cause it smells like you."
I stood there rubbing my stomach, heat crawling up my neck and face. Frustration mixed with something else I didn't want to name. Only if I wasn't the youngest. If I'd been born first, maybe she wouldn't treat me like some annoying little pest. Maybe I could've grabbed her wrist, pulled her close, told her to stop acting like she owned the whole house. But no. I was the baby.
Always would be.
I sighed, bent down to pick up the blanket that had fallen with me earlier, and tossed it back onto the bed in a messy heap. My room still smelled faintly of last night's cologne, sleep, and now a ghost of Bella's scent lingering in the air. I pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, trying to ignore the half-hard situation in my boxers that always seemed to happen around moments like this.
Our house has always been just the four of us ever since I could remember, me, mom and my tow elder sisters.
Dad left a long time ago—back when I was maybe six. I've heard the story in bits and pieces over the years, never the full thing at once. He cheated on Mom with some woman from work. Mom found messages on his phone one night, confronted him, and the next week he was gone. Packed two suitcases and disappeared. No big goodbye, no child support that I ever saw. I don't even remember his face clearly anymore.
There's one faded photo in Mom's bedside drawer, but I haven't looked at it in years. I never felt that huge empty hole some kids talk about when a parent leaves. Maybe I was too young, or maybe Mom and my sisters filled every corner of the house with so much noise, warmth, and love that there just wasn't space for missing him.
Being the only guy in the house and the youngest, came with its own weird rules.
Everyone babied me. Mom still called me "baby" even in front of my friends, which was embarrassing. Sofia—my eldest sister, ruffled my hair like I was ten.
Bella… well, Bella kicked me out of bed and punched my gut when she was annoyed. They all treated me like I was still the little kid who needed protecting.
But there were benefits too. Big ones. Dangerous ones.
They were completely careless around me.
As I got older, my body started to change. Voice dropped, shoulders widened, and worst of all, I started getting hard at the smallest things. And in this house, there were a lot of small things.
They wore whatever they felt like. Tank tops with no bras on lazy weekends, nipples pressing against thin cotton. Tiny sleep shorts that barely covered the curve of their asses.
Sometimes just panties and an oversized T-shirt wandering from bathroom to bedroom after showers.
I'd walked in on them changing more times than I could count.
Stepping out of the bathroom with only a towel that slipped a little too low in front, or bending over to load the washer in a loose robe that gaped open if you were standing in the right (or wrong) spot.
None of them ever freaked out. They'd laugh, wave me off, say things like "It's just family, Robbie" or "You're still my little boy." Like seeing them half-naked or more didn't count because I was harmless. Because I was the baby.
But I wasn't harmless. Not inside.
Every time it happened, my face burned, my heart raced, and my dick would twitch and harden no matter how hard I tried to think anything else. I'd have to turn away fast, sit down, cross my legs, pray nobody noticed the tent in my pants. Living in a house full of beautiful women who treated you like you weren't even a real guy yet was its own kind of slow torture.
I shook my head, trying to push the memories down, and headed downstairs.
The house was warm despite the snow falling thick and heavy outside. New Year's Eve tomorrow, and the world outside was pure white. But inside, the heating system kept everything cozy.
The living room still had a few stray red and gold balloons floating near the ceiling from Christmas, and the big couch had blankets tossed over it from movie night two days ago.
A soft humming floated in from the kitchen—light, cheerful, the same little tune she always sang when she was in a good mood making breakfast. The smell of food hit me next. My stomach growled despite Bella's punch.
I walked toward the kitchen doorway, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Mom?" I called, stepping inside.
To be continued...
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