You go to shower

I sigh, exhaustion finally catching up with me. The weight of everything—the photos, Caleb's confession, the storm outside—presses down on my shoulders like hands.

"I need a shower," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

"Bathroom's through there." He nods toward the connecting door. "Towels are in the cabinet."

I grab my bag and head for the bathroom, desperately needing space to think. The bathroom is exactly as I remember—too fancy for a suburban home, with marble countertops and a glass shower that Aaron had installed during one of his many renovations. Everything he touches turns expensive.

I lock both doors—the one to Caleb's room and the one to the hallway—before stripping down. The shower is hot enough to fog the mirror in seconds, and I step under the spray gratefully, letting it wash away the dinner, the tension, the feeling of being watched.

But I can't wash away the truth: I came back. After years of successful avoidance, I walked right back into this house, this dynamic, this web of wanting things I shouldn't want.

The water drums against my shoulders as I try to process Caleb's revelation. The photos. The boxes. The way he said 'we all pay attention' like it was normal for an entire household to track my movements after I left.

I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I almost don't hear the knock.

"Occupied," I call out.

The doorknob turns. The hallway door—the one I definitely locked—opens.

Aaron steps inside.

"What the—" I press myself against the shower wall, grateful for the fogged glass between us. "I locked that door."

"I know." He closes it behind him, and I hear the lock click again. "Master key. My house, remember?"

His voice is different than at dinner. Lower. Rougher. The careful distance he maintained all evening has evaporated, replaced by something that makes my pulse race for all the wrong reasons.

"You can't be in here," I say. "I'm—"

"I know what you are." He moves closer to the shower, and through the fogged glass I can make out his silhouette—tall, broad, imposing. "Question is, do you?"

"Get out."

"In a moment." He leans against the counter, and I can feel his eyes on me despite the obscured glass. "We need to talk about your living arrangements."

"We talked at dinner. I'm staying the night because this is the only choice."

"No. At dinner, we performed. Pretended this was normal. That you're just my stepdaughter coming home for a visit." His laugh is dark. "But we both know that's not what this is."

I turn the water hotter, needing the sting. "Then what is it?"

"You tell me." His shadow moves, and suddenly he's right next to the shower door. "Why did you really come back?"

"You invited me—"

"We sent a letter. One letter among dozens of attempted contacts over the years. All ignored." His hand touches the glass, and I can see the outline of his palm through the fog. "What was different this time?"

I don't answer because I don't know. Or maybe I do know and can't admit it. That I was tired of running. Tired of pretending I didn't think about this house, these people, the specific way the air felt charged whenever we were all in the same room.

"The old boyfriend," Aaron says when I stay silent. "David? Daniel?"

"Derek."

"Right. Derek." He says the name like it tastes bad. "The one who looked like a discount Caleb."

My breath catches. "He didn't—"

"Dark hair, same build, same arrogant smirk. You have a type."

"That's not—" I stop, realizing I'm defending myself to a man who has no right to opinions about my dating life. "Why do you even know what he looked like?"

"Social media is remarkably informative."

"You stalked my Instagram?"

"Stalking implies secrecy. I liked several posts. Very openly."

I remember now—the notification that made my stomach flip. Aaron_Cross liked your photo. I'd convinced myself it was an accident, a slip of the thumb while scrolling.

"That's... creepy."

"Is it?" He shifts, and his voice drops even lower. "Creepier than keeping your things in Caleb's closet? Than Madeline saving every birthday card you never sent? Than the fact that your old room isn't actually empty—we just moved everything to mine?"

The water suddenly feels too hot. "What?"

"Did you think we'd just erase you? Pack you away in the garage like Christmas decorations?" His hand presses harder against the glass. "You lived here for years. You're part of this house whether you acknowledge it or not."

"I'm not part of anything. I left."

"Your body left." The shower door handle turns. "The rest of you..."

"Don't." My voice comes out sharp, scared.

The handle stops, but doesn't release.

"Four years," he says. "Four years of watching you pretend we don't exist. Building a life that looked exactly like playing house. Safe boyfriend. Safe job. Safe little apartment with safe beige walls."

"How do you know what color my walls—"

"You posted a tour. Very proud of your gallery wall. All those photos of college friends, new life, fresh start." The handle turns another inch. "Not a single picture from here."

"Why would I display reminders of—"

"Of what?" The door cracks open, just enough for cool air to slip in. "What exactly are you trying to forget?"

"Aaron, stop."

"The way Caleb used to watch you? The way Madeline would find excuses to touch you? The way I had to leave the room sometimes because being near you made me feel things a stepfather shouldn't feel?"

The door opens wider. Not all the way, but enough that the steam escapes, enough that the barrier between us becomes more suggestion than protection.

"This is wrong," I whisper.

"Yes." He doesn't deny it, doesn't pretend otherwise. "It's been wrong since you turned eighteen and I realized I was looking at you differently. Wrong since you started wearing those little shorts around the house just to see who would crack first."

"I didn't—"

"Wrong since that night you came home drunk from prom and asked me why Caleb looked at you like he wanted to devour you."

I remember that night. Remember the way he'd gripped the counter so hard I thought it might crack. Remember how he'd told me to go to bed, voice strained, and how I'd wondered...

"You knew," I say. "All this time, you knew how he felt."

"We all knew. About all of it. The whole tangled mess of want and shouldn't and almost." The door opens another inch. "Why do you think you really left?"

"For college—"

"You could've gone to State. Twenty minutes away. Could've commuted." His silhouette shifts, and I realize he's not looking at the fogged glass anymore—he's looking through the gap in the door. At me. "But you ran across the country because you knew what would happen if you stayed."

I cross my arms over my chest, acutely aware of my vulnerability. "Nothing would've happened."

"No?" He laughs, and it's not a nice sound. "Tell me, during those four years, did you ever think about us?"

"No."

"Liar." He says it with such certainty. "Did you ever close your eyes with safe, boring Derek and imagine someone else?"

"Stop."

"Did you ever wonder what would've happened that night if I hadn't sent you to bed?"

"Aaron—"

"Did you ever touch yourself and—"

"Stop!" The word echoes off the tiles.

Silence falls, broken only by the water still running down my back. I'm shaking, but not from cold.

"I'll stop," he says finally. "But first, answer one question honestly."

"What?"

"Why my son's room?"

I blink. "What?"

"You honestly could've taken the couch. The empty room. Could've left. But you chose Caleb's room." The door opens fully now, and he stands in the doorway, fully dressed but somehow more exposed than I am. "Why?"

I should cover myself better. Should scream. Should do something other than stand here, water running over my skin, meeting the eyes of a man who helped raise me and is looking at me like anything but a father.

"Because," I say quietly, "I'm tired of being the only one who has to be good."

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, maybe, or recognition.

"Finally," he breathes. "There's my girl."

"I'm not your girl."

"No?" He steps into the shower fully clothed, and I back up until I hit the tile wall. "Then whose are you?"

The water soaks his shirt instantly, plasters it to his chest, and I can't look away from the way the fabric clings. He's broader than I remembered, more solid. The kind of male presence that fills a space completely.

"I'm my own," I manage.

"Of course you are." He reaches past me to adjust the water temperature, and his arm brushes my shoulder. "Independent. Self-sufficient. In complete control." His eyes drop to where I'm pressed against the wall, nowhere to run. "Except you're not, are you?"

"Don't psychoanalyze me."

"Someone should. Four years of therapy and you still ended up back here." He plants a hand on the wall beside my head, and I smell his cologne mixing with steam and something darker. "In my house. In my shower. Trembling."

"I'm not trembling."

He lifts his other hand, holds it an inch from my skin. Close enough that I can feel the heat, but not touching. Never touching. The almost-contact is worse than if he'd grabbed me.

"You are," he says. "And we both know it's not from fear."

"Aaron—"

"You should've stayed away." His voice is almost gentle now, which is somehow worse. "Should've kept ignoring our calls, our letters. Should've married safe, boring Derek and had safe, boring babies and lived a safe, boring life."

"Maybe I will."

"Too late." His hand moves, still not touching, tracing the air beside my neck, my shoulder, the curve of my waist. Mapping me without contact. "You came back. Walked through that door and back into our lives, and now..."

"Now what?"

He leans in, lips near my ear, and I feel his breath more than hear his words.

"Now we all get to stop pretending."

The water runs between us, soaking his clothes, making everything cling and stick and reveal. He still hasn't touched me—not once—but I feel him everywhere.

"I should go," I whisper.

"Yes." He doesn't move. "You should. Run back to Caleb's room. Lock the door. Pack your things in the morning and disappear for another four years."

"I will."

"Or." The word hangs between us like a blade. "You could stop running. Stay. See what happens when you finally admit what we all already know."

"Which is?"

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and his expression makes my knees weak.

"That you came back because you're ready." His eyes burn into mine. "The question is—ready for what?"

Before I can answer—before I can think—he steps back. Out of the shower. Soaked clothes dripping on the marble floor.

"Breakfast is at eight," he says, calm as if he didn't just shatter every boundary between us. "Madeline makes excellent French toast."

He turns to leave, then pauses at the door.

"Oh, and sweetheart?" He doesn't look back. "Next time you want to lock me out, remember—I built these doors. I know all their secrets."

The door closes with a soft click, and I'm alone again. The water's gone cold, but I'm burning.

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the shower floor, knees drawn to my chest, trying to understand what just happened. What's been happening since I walked through that front door.

They all knew. All this time, they all knew about the tangled web of want between us. And instead of letting it die with distance, they waited. Planned. Sent a letter designed to bring me back.

And I came.

God help me, I came back.

I turn off the water and sit in the silence, dripping and shaking and absolutely certain of one thing:

I should leave tomorrow.