You decide enough is enough

"Oh, that's rich." I follow him out of the closet, anger replacing the uncomfortable heat from moments before. "You're dismissing me? After that whole production?"

He turns, eyebrow raised. "Production?"

"The photos. The dramatic revelations. The—" I gesture wildly, "—the keeping my stuff in your closet like some kind of shrine."

"You're the one who called me into my own room."

"Because you were lurking!"

"In my own hallway?"

"Yes!" I know I sound ridiculous, but something about him brings out this side of me. Always has. "Normal people knock. They announce themselves. They don't hover outside doors like—"

"Like what?" He steps closer, and I hate that I notice how the lamplight catches the angles of his face. "Finish the sentence."

"Like predators."

His laugh is sharp. "Predator? That's what you think I am?"

"What else would you call it? Collecting photos, keeping my things, waiting—your words—for me to stop running?"

"How about someone who gave a damn?" His voice rises to match mine. "Someone who noticed when you stopped coming home for breaks? When your calls got shorter and shorter until they stopped altogether?"

"I was busy—"

"Bullshit." He cuts me off. "You were scared."

The word hits like cold water, but I'm too deep in this now to back down. "Of what?"

"Of this." He gestures between us. "Of what happens when we're in the same room for more than five minutes."

"Nothing happens—"

"We fight," he interrupts. "We always fight. Even when you just moved out. Remember? You accused me of eating your leftover Chinese food—"

"You did eat it!"

"—and we screamed at each other for an hour. Madeline had to separate us. Said we were giving her a migraine."

"What's your point?"

"My point," he says, moving closer, "is that we've been doing this dance for six years. This push and pull. This... whatever this is."

"It's called mutual dislike."

"Is it?" Another step. "Because I don't know anyone else who gets under your skin like this. Who makes you flush like that when you're angry."

"I'm not—" I touch my cheek and feel the heat there. Traitor body. "That's anger."

"Sure it is."

"Stop saying my name like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you know something I don't."

He's backed me up without me realizing it, and my shoulders hit the wall beside his closet. "Maybe I do."

"Enlighten me then." I lift my chin, defiant. "What great wisdom does Caleb Yang possess?"

"You want to know what I know?" His hands come up to rest on the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "I know you kept my lacrosse hoodie."

My stomach drops. "I don't—"

"The gray one. With the hole in the left sleeve." His voice is low, conversational, like he's not currently pinning me to a wall with nothing but proximity. "You took it when you left for college. Thought I wouldn't notice."

"That's... I needed something warm—"

"In California?"

Shit. "It gets cold—"

"Try again."

"Fine." The word comes out breathless, and I hate myself for it. "I took your stupid hoodie. Happy?"

"Why?"

"Because..." I stop, restructure. "It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"Since when do you care about an old hoodie?"

"I don't." He leans in slightly, and I can smell that cologne again, mixed with something that's just him. "I care that you wanted something of mine. That you took it. Kept it."

"It's just fabric."

"Is it?"

We're both breathing harder now, and I'm hyperaware of every point where we're almost touching. His hands by my head. His body inches from mine. One deep breath and we'd be pressed together.

"This is exactly why I stayed away," I manage.

"This?"

"You. Me. This thing between us that shouldn't exist."

"But it does exist." His voice drops lower. "Doesn't it?"

I should deny it. Should duck under his arm and put distance between us. Should do anything except what I actually do, which is meet his gaze and say, "Yes."

The admission hangs between us like a lit match over gasoline.

"Say it again," he demands softly.

"Caleb—"

"Say it."

"Yes," I breathe. "It exists. Whatever this is, it's real and it's been real since—"

"Since you were eighteen and wore that red bikini to the pool party."

I flush harder. "That's specific."

"I'm a specific kind of guy." His eyes drop to my mouth. "You sat on the edge of the pool. Refused to get in because the water was too cold. I said you were being a baby."

"I remember."

"You splashed me. I pulled you in." His voice goes rougher. "You came up sputtering, ready to kill me. Your hair was all—" He lifts one hand from the wall, hovers it near my face again, that almost-touch that makes my skin prickle. "And I thought, shit. This is going to be a problem."

"Why didn't you ever—"

"What? Make a move on my teenage stepsister who'd just been through hell with her mom's ****? Yeah, that would've been appropriate."

"We're not actually related—"

"Tell that to to the family dinners where we sat across from each other pretending we didn't notice things we shouldn't notice."

"What things?" The question comes out smaller than intended.

"How you bite your lip when you're thinking. How you can't sit still when you're nervous. How you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

"I don't—"

"You do." He's so close now I can feel his breath on my face. "Just like I look at you. Like right now."

My hands come up to press against his chest, but I don't push. Just rest them there, feeling his heartbeat race to match mine. "This can't happen."

"Why not?"

"Because... because Aaron and Madeline—"

"Aren't here."

"Because it's wrong—"

"By whose standards?"

"Because you drive me insane," I finish weakly.

"Good." His smile is sharp, predatory after all. "I'd hate to be the only one losing their mind."

"Caleb."

"You keep saying my name." His hand finally makes contact, fingers ghosting along my jaw. "Do you know what it does to me? Hearing you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying not to want this."

"I am trying."

"How's that working out?"

I laugh, breathless and a little hysterical. "Not great, obviously."

"Want to know a secret?" He leans in, lips nearly brushing my ear. "I'm not trying anymore."

"Since when?"

"Since you walked through that door tonight looking like everything I've been missing."

"That's a line."

"It's the truth." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "I'm done pretending you're my sister. Done acting like this is normal. Done watching you run."

"I'm not running." But even as I say it, I'm aware of how trapped I am. His body caging mine, his hands bracketing my head, the wall solid against my back.

"Prove it."

"How?"

He studies me for a long moment, and I see him making a decision. The same kind of calculated risk he used to take on the lacrosse field—all or nothing, no middle ground.

"Stay," he says simply. "Not just tonight. For the reunion. See what happens when you stop leaving."

"And if I don't like what happens?"

"Then you go back to your life and we pretend this never happened. Again."

"And if I do like it?"

His smile is slow, dangerous, full of promises I'm not sure I'm ready to cash in. "Then we deal with that when we get there."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting tonight."

We stare at each other, the air between us electric. I can feel the moment stretching, becoming something that will matter later. A before and after. A line we're about to cross.

"I need to think," I whisper.

"Do you?" His thumb traces my jawline, and I can't help the small sound that escapes. "Because from where I'm standing, you've already decided."

"You don't know everything."

"I know you're still here. Pressed against my wall. Letting me touch you." His thumb moves to my bottom lip, barely grazing it. "Fighting with me because it's safer than admitting what you really want to do."

"Which is?"

But I already know. Can see it in the way his eyes darken, the way his body shifts imperceptibly closer. Can feel it in my own response, the way every nerve ending seems to wake up and pay attention.

"You really want me to say it out loud?" he asks.

"I—"

A door slams somewhere in the house, followed by Madeline's laughter and Aaron's deeper voice. The sound breaks whatever spell we're under, and Caleb steps back so fast I nearly stumble forward.