Don't Come Close
1169 Words
Amara kicked open the door to her house, and the first thing that hit her wasn’t the sight of home but the scent of alcohol drifting faintly through the air. Her father’s scent. Then she saw him—head tilted back, eyes closed, his glass half full. He wasn’t drunk yet, but the night was young, and she knew where it would end.
For someone so disciplined and responsible by day, he could drown himself completely by night. The sight tugged at her chest, but she swallowed it back and made for Leo’s room.
Her parents were around, which meant Leo wouldn’t dare ignore her this time. He loved to play the role of the perfect son—the good boy who’d been adopted out of pure goodness. The way everyone spoke of him made her want to throw something.
“Leo!” she called, pitching her voice just loud enough for her mother to hear. “Open up, I have something for you.”
The door opened a second later. And there he was—Leo, with droplets of water still sliding down his bare chest, his hair damp, dark, and wild from the shower.
Amara froze.
Her throat went dry, her fingers tightening around the small object in her hand she had forgotten she was even holding. Leo leaned lazily against the doorframe, a grin curling the corner of his mouth.
That grin.
Her mind betrayed her. The image from last night flashed—the picture he had sent her, teasing, shirtless, that stupid half-smirk that had somehow branded itself into her dreams.
And in those dreams—God help her—she hadn’t been standing outside his door. She had been in his room. The light had been soft. His voice low. His breath against her skin.
His lips and hands…that had roamed freely, only touching her in places that no one but her had.
In Secret.
Damn! The wetness he'd drink from between her legs…why…
She blinked hard. She needed to leave. Now.
But Leo’s hand caught hers before she could step back. “Come in, Sister,” he murmured, that infuriating teasing lilt wrapping around her like smoke.
“I’m not your freaking sister,” she whispered. She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip was firm, warm, dangerous.
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Her back hit the wood. Her breath stilled. Leo was close. Too close.
“So tell me,” he said softly, “does it bother you?”
“What?”
He leaned just a little closer, enough for her to catch the scent of his soap—clean, sharp, and almost dizzying. “Having dreams about me.”
Her chest tightened. She stared at him. “What—what are you talking about?”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You talk in your sleep, Amara.”
The air left her lungs in one sharp rush.
“I don’t—”
“Oh, you do.” He smiled faintly, stepping just close enough that she could feel his words against her cheek. “You called my name.”
Heat rushed to her face so fast she could barely breathe.
He was lying. He had to be. But the smug calm in his voice, the slow rise and fall of his chest, made it impossible to tell. Her heart pounded so loudly she swore he could hear it.
“You’re insane,” she whispered.
“Maybe.” His tone was quiet, almost fond. “But you’re blushing, Sister.”
Her pulse jumped. She pushed him lightly on the chest, but he didn’t move. He was solid, heat and calm mixed in one impossible body.
“Why would you even send that picture?” she asked finally, voice small. “You think it’s funny?”
“You changed the subject.”
“You’re not adopted by my parents, Leo.” The words slipped out, half defense, half plea for sanity.
Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, maybe—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
He pulled away, grabbed a shirt, and tugged it over his head. The air between them stayed thick, heavy with all the things neither dared say.
“What did you want to ask?” he said finally.
“Did you beat up Kevin?”
“You know I did,” he said simply. “He stepped on me.”
“Again.”
He turned, eyes steady on her. “Do you still care about him?”
“What? No! I—”
“Then why does it matter if he’s beaten or bleeding or gone?” The darkness in his tone startled her.
“I’m not worried about him, I’m worried about you.”
He took a step closer. “Why?”
“I just don’t want you in trouble.”
“Why?” he repeated, softer now, his voice dangerously calm.
She couldn’t answer.
He took another step forward. Her back met the door again, and he stopped inches away.
“Why would you worry?” His breath brushed her cheek. “I’m not your brother.”
She swallowed. “Do you… really want me to be your sister?”
Silence.
Then a soft chuckle. His eyes lowered, tracing her face like he was memorizing it. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I don’t think I do.”
The room tilted. Her fingers curled into fists.
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the faint brush of his breath against her ear. “That would spoil the fun.”
Her skin broke out in chills. Her mind screamed at her to move, but her body didn’t listen.
Leo’s voice softened. “You keep saying you don’t like me looking at you.”
“Because I don’t,” she breathed.
He smiled slightly. “You don’t like when I talk to you either.”
“Right.”
He studied her face, his gaze unreadable. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“You do.”
Her pulse tripped. “I don’t—”
“You do,” he repeated quietly, the words dragging out like a slow confession. “You just hate that you do.”
Her heart was thundering in her ears. He was too close, his voice too soft, his eyes too honest.
“I…”
A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence. Amara jumped, nearly tripping, but Leo’s hands caught her shoulders, steady and strong.
“Kids,” her mother called. “Dinner’s ready!”
The moment broke.
Leo stepped back, but his eyes lingered a beat too long.
Amara couldn’t breathe right. She wanted to scream at him, to hate him, to undo the moment that had just happened. But as she turned toward the door, her hand brushed the spot on her arm where his fingers had been.
And she hated the way her skin missed the warmth.
- Writer
