Claimed By The Biker Colusses

Old Photos

Lila

The living room felt safer than the kitchen somehow. Softer light, big sectional couch, the way the afternoon sun came through the tall windows and made everything look warmer. Damien had put on a simple black T-shirt and jeans after breakfast, and I’d finally gone upstairs to change into real clothes — loose sweatpants and one of my own hoodies. Still, I kept stealing glances at him when he wasn’t looking.

We sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, a whole cushion between us like we both knew we needed the space. He’d turned on some mindless nature documentary on the big TV — penguins waddling across ice, narrated in a calm British voice. Neither of us was really watching.

After a while he got up and came back with two of Mom’s old photo albums from the bookshelf. The ones she kept in the living room instead of the fancy ones in her office.

“Thought maybe we could look through these,” he said, sitting a little closer this time. “If it feels okay. Or we can just flip through and not say much.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I think I want to.”

He opened the first album on the coffee table between us. The pages were thick and a little worn at the edges. The first few photos were from before Damien — just Mom and me when I was little, birthday parties, school plays, awkward vacations. I smiled at one where I was seven, covered in cake, and Mom was laughing so hard her eyes were closed.

Then the albums shifted. Pictures of the three of us started appearing after the wedding.

Damien flipped a page and there we were — last Christmas. The big tree in the corner, lights twinkling. Mom in a red sweater, me in the ugly green one she’d bought me as a joke. Damien stood between us with his arms around both our shoulders, smiling at the camera. But when I looked closer, his head was turned just slightly toward me, not Mom. His eyes were on my face, soft in a way I hadn’t noticed at the time.

My stomach did a little flip.

“Look at this one,” I said quietly, pointing. “You’re not even looking at the camera. Or at Mom.”

He leaned in to see better. His shoulder brushed mine, warm through our clothes. For a second he didn’t say anything. Just stared at the photo.

“Yeah,” he said finally. His voice was lower than usual. “I remember that day. You had just aced your finals and you were so happy. Kept talking about the books you wanted for Christmas. Your mom was… she was happy too, but I guess I was watching you light up the room.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Didn’t realize it showed in the picture.”

I turned the page slowly. Another photo — Easter brunch. Damien carving the ham, Mom taking the picture. In this one his eyes were on me again as I laughed at something he’d said.

“It shows in a few,” I whispered. My heart was beating a little too fast. “I never noticed before.”

The room got quiet. The documentary kept playing in the background, but it felt far away. Damien closed the album gently and set it on the coffee table. He didn’t move back to his side of the couch. Instead he stayed right there, close enough that I could feel the heat from his body.

“Lila…” He sounded tired. Like he was fighting with himself. “I didn’t mean for it to look like that. I was trying to be a good stepdad. That’s all.”

I looked up at him. His face was so close now. The faint stubble on his jaw, the little lines at the corners of his eyes that made him look real, not like the polished billionaire everyone else saw. “Was it? Just being a good stepdad?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand lifted like he might touch my cheek, but he dropped it and clenched it into a fist on his thigh instead.

“You were growing up right in front of me,” he said quietly. “Smart, kind, funny. It was hard not to notice. But I never crossed any line. Your mom was my wife. You were my stepdaughter. That was the end of it.”

“Was?” I asked, the word slipping out before I could stop it.

His eyes darkened. “Lila.”

The way he said my name — not “kiddo” or “princess,” just Lila — sent a shiver down my spine. I felt exposed, like he could see every confusing thought I’d had since yesterday. The way I’d leaned into his touch at the funeral. The way I’d stared at his bare chest this morning. The way I didn’t want to leave this house.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, looking down at my hands. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just… everything feels messed up right now. You’re the only person who feels safe, but looking at these pictures makes me wonder if maybe I wasn’t imagining things all along.”

He let out a slow breath. “You weren’t imagining everything. But that doesn’t make it right.”

The silence stretched. I could hear the clock ticking on the mantel. My hoodie suddenly felt too warm.

Damien shifted on the couch, turning more toward me. “Listen to me. You just lost your mom. You’re grieving. I’m supposed to be the stable one here. The one who takes care of you, not the one who makes things more complicated.”

“I know,” I whispered. But my eyes kept drifting to his mouth, to the way his hand rested on the cushion between us, so close to mine.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

His fingers moved — just an inch — and brushed the side of my hand. Not holding it, just touching. Skin against skin. Warm. Rough from years of whatever it was powerful men did with their hands.

The touch lasted maybe three seconds before he pulled away like he’d been burned.

“We should stop looking at photos for today,” he said, voice rough. He stood up suddenly, grabbing the albums. “I’ll put these away. You want something to drink? Tea? Juice?”

I nodded, even though I didn’t really want anything. “Tea sounds good.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. I stayed on the couch, heart pounding, staring at the spot where his hand had been.

This was wrong. So wrong.

But when he came back with two mugs and handed me one, our fingers brushed again. This time neither of us pulled away immediately. His eyes met mine over the steam rising from the tea.

“Damien,” I said softly, using his real name instead of Dad for the first time in years. It felt dangerous on my tongue.

He closed his eyes for a second, like it hurt to hear it. “Don’t, Lila. Please.”

But he didn’t move away. And neither did I.

We sat there drinking tea in heavy silence, the photo of Christmas still fresh in my mind — his arm around me, his eyes only on me.

For the first time since the funeral, the grief wasn’t the loudest thing in my chest. Something else was waking up. Something scary and warm and impossible to ignore.

Damien

I was losing my mind.

One photo. One innocent Christmas picture, and suddenly the careful walls I’d built for three years were cracking wide open.

She had looked up at me with those big green eyes and asked “Was it?” and I’d almost told her the truth. That I’d been fighting this pull since she turned seventeen and started looking at me like I was more than just her mother’s husband. That some nights I’d lain awake next to Caroline wondering what it would feel like if it was Lila in my bed instead.

But I couldn’t say any of that.

She was grieving. Vulnerable. Nineteen years old and suddenly alone in the world except for me.

I made the tea on autopilot, trying to get my head straight. When I handed her the mug and our fingers touched, I felt it again — that spark, low in my gut, spreading heat through my veins. Her skin was so soft. Her eyes so trusting.

When she called me “Damien” instead of Dad, it hit me like a freight train. My name in her voice sounded intimate. Wrong. Perfect.

I wanted to pull her into my lap right there on the couch. Wanted to kiss her until the sadness in her eyes turned into something else. Wanted to tell her she didn’t have to be strong, that I’d carry it all for her.

Instead I sat there like a coward, drinking tea and pretending my body wasn’t reacting to her closeness.

This had to stop. Today. Before it went any further.

But when she looked at me over the rim of her mug, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed, I knew deep down it was already too late for stopping.

The only question was how long I could pretend I was still the good guy.