Beneath His Skin

I never wanted to move to this place. Everything about it felt wrong—the pine trees that loomed like they were listening, the thick fog curling around the roads, the silence that sank into your bones. Ashwood, Oregon wasn’t a fresh start. It was a slow suffocation with good lighting. Mom grinned too much as we pulled into the driveway. I didn’t match her energy. Couldn’t. Not when I knew she was betting everything—again—on a man she barely knew. He had money. That much was obvious. The house was huge, cold-looking, all black windows and clean lines like something out of a rich-people horror film. But no amount of modern design could distract from the fact that I was about to live with strangers. Including him. Luca Carter. My new stepbrother. Mom called him “distant.” Said he was going through a phase. “Barely around” was how she put it, like that was supposed to be comforting. I didn’t even know what he looked like. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to. The front door opened before we even knocked. I expected her husband. But it wasn’t him. It was Luca. He leaned against the frame like he owned it—hood up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, shadows curling under his cheekbones like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes landed on me like a weight, dragging slowly from head to toe without a shred of shame. Something in my stomach twisted. “Hi,” Mom chirped, oblivious to the way the air shifted. “Ava, this is Luca.” I swallowed. “Nice to meet you.” Luca didn’t answer. Just stared. Mom laughed awkwardly. “He’s not much of a talker. You’ll get used to it.” Then she slipped inside like everything was fine. Like I hadn’t just been sized up by the guy who was technically my brother now. I tried to walk past him. He didn’t move. Not even a little. I glanced up, eyes locking with his. Gray. Flat. Like a storm that hadn’t started yet. “I said, nice to meet you,” I muttered. Finally, he stepped aside. Just enough space to pass. But as I did, I heard him whisper it. Low. Dry. A challenge: “We’ll see.” Dinner was awkward. Luca said nothing. His father wasn’t home. Mom tried to fill the silence with nervous chatter, but I felt the way Luca’s eyes lingered when she wasn’t looking. Studying me. Judging me. Something else I couldn’t name. Later, I wandered the second floor, trying to find the guest room. The hall stretched on forever—dim lights, expensive paintings, a quiet that felt like it was listening. And then I stopped. There was a door cracked open at the end of the hall. Light poured through. Music, soft and slow, drifted out—a haunting piano melody that didn’t fit the house. I stepped closer, drawn by it. And then I saw him. Luca. Sitting at a black piano, back turned, fingers moving with a kind of pain I could feel from here. He didn’t look up. But his voice sliced through the air like he knew I’d been standing there all along. “You’re in my space.” My heart jumped. “I didn’t mean to—” He stopped playing. Silence dropped like a knife. Then he turned. And smiled. But it wasn’t kind. It was a warning.