I stare at my own door and, without even willing my body to do it, get up and walk over; my hand hovers over the handle. “Fuck it.”

I grab it, and then I’m staring at her door like a total freak.

It’s slightly cracked. Is that an invitation?

What does that mean?

Why the hell am I even analyzing shit right now at three in the morning when I have a game tomorrow night?

I have so many more things I need to worry about; instead, I’m staring at a damn door like it’s going to eat me alive.

Focus.

You’re the captain of the lacrosse team, and you can’t even open a door or attempt to have balls of steel in an effort to have sex with the girl you like?

The girl that’s in your house.

That the media has pegged her as my new stepsister rather than my foster sister yeah, that’s the clincher, isn’t it?

But we aren’t even related.

And yet I know my dad would have a fucking heart attack if he knew, or if he caught us, it would be bad, but it’s more than just sex, and talking about my feelings with my dad is about on the same level as getting seven root canals and both balls chopped off.

I hold my hand up to knock; I mean, what if she’s naked? Not that I haven’t seen her naked or held her naked—God, she’s beautiful naked.

I’m still stuck in my thoughts when the door opens, and she’s sleepily standing there in a pair of tiny black shorts and a pink crop top.

Her eyes widen. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Yes. Why? Do I not look okay?”

She laughs, her smile always makes my day, my nights, my everything better. “You look distraught.”

“I was thinking deep thoughts,” I answer.

She leans against the door and crosses her arms. “Oh yeah? What kind of deep thoughts, silver spoon?”

I roll my eyes, then I look down. “About nakedness.”

“Me or you?”

“Both.”

“You’re a relative scholar now, aren’t you?” She teases, then grabs me by the hand and pulls me into her room.

My mouth is on hers before she can say another word, my hands tangle in her messy hair while she reaches for my shirt and, in a brief moment of us breaking apart, pulls it over my head.

I seriously can’t with this girl.

She’s perfect.

More perfect than this family.

We’ve been going at it more than we should, and I know that we could easily get caught, but I can’t stop, and while I know I’m a horny asshole, it’s more than the sex—it’s the connection.

It’s the fact that I can hug her.

I’ll take it to my grave, but sometimes I just want to hold her, and I want her so badly to hold me back and tell me everything’s going to be okay when it feels like my life’s going to be something that’s planned out and laminated for me, like an itinerary I want to burn but have to keep by my side and follow if I want to survive.