The divorce split them up...

The divorce split us up at twelve, and I hadn’t thought about Emma in years. Not really. She’d been this gangly kid with braces who used to steal my video games and leave her stupid friendship bracelets all over our shared bathroom. When Dad and her mom split, it felt like being released from prison. Good riddance to the whole mess.

Thirteen years later, I was nursing a beer at O’Malley’s, waiting for my buddy Marcus to show up, when I noticed her sitting at the bar. Long auburn hair caught the low amber lighting, and she had this way of laughing that made people turn to look. She wore a green silk blouse that made her skin glow golden, and when she crossed her legs, the hem of her black skirt rode up just enough to make my throat go dry.

I was mentally rehearsing something smooth to say when she turned slightly and I saw her profile. Something clicked—those cheekbones, the way her nose tilted up at the end. It was like looking at a photograph that had been digitally aged, all the childish features refined into something that made my chest tighten.

“Emma?” The name came out before I could stop it.

She stiffened, then slowly pivoted on her barstool. Her eyes—Jesus, when had they gotten so green?—widened as they scanned my face. “No fucking way. Caleb?”

“In the flesh.” I moved closer, my heart doing something stupid against my ribs. “Holy shit, Em. You look…”

“Different?” She laughed, but it sounded nervous now. “Yeah, the braces finally came off. And I grew into my feet.”

“You grew into everything.” I immediately wanted to cram those words back into my mouth, but she just grinned, that same mischievous smile I remembered from when we’d tormented each other over the dinner table.

“You’re not so bad yourself. Though you’re definitely rocking the ‘tortured graphic designer’ thing hard.” She gestured to my scruffy beard and paint-stained hoodie. “Still drawing on everything?”

“Only professionally now.” I slid onto the stool beside her before my courage could evaporate. “What are you drinking?”

“Old Fashioned. Classy, right?” She held up her glass, ice clinking. “I’m celebrating. Got promoted to senior account manager today.”

“Look at you, all grown up and corporate.” I signaled the bartender. “Another for the lady, and I’ll take whatever IPA you’ve got.”

We clinked glasses, and when our eyes met over the rims, something electric passed between us. Something that definitely hadn’t existed when we were twelve and she was putting salt in my cereal.

“So,” she said, swirling her drink, “last I heard, you were in Portland. What brings you back to Chicago?”

“Freelance gig. Magazine redesign. You?”

“Never left. Got my MBA at Northwestern, been working downtown ever since.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and I caught a whiff of her perfume—something floral with vanilla underneath. “Mom moved to Florida with husband number three. Dad’s in Arizona. What about your folks?”

“Dad’s still in Scottsdale. Mom remarried, lives in Geneva now.” I studied her hands as she spoke, noticing the absence of rings. “Can’t believe it’s been thirteen years.”

“Thirteen years, four months, and…” She glanced at her watch. “Sixteen days. But who’s counting?”

Our eyes locked again, and this time the silence stretched between us, thick with everything we weren’t saying. The bartender chose that moment to deliver my beer, breaking the spell.

“Remember that summer at the lake house?” I asked suddenly. “When you pushed me off the dock and I lost my favorite Lakers jersey?”

“You mean when you deserved it for putting that frog in my sleeping bag?” She laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Mom was so pissed about the water damage to the hardwood.”

“Worth it though. Your scream could’ve woken the dead.”

We spent the next hour trading memories like baseball cards, each story revealing how much we’d actually shared during those three chaotic years our parents were married. She’d gotten her first period while we were camping and I’d been the one to hike to the ranger station for supplies. I’d cried over my first real breakup while she sat on my bedroom floor, offering me her stash of hidden chocolate.

“God, we were such little shits to each other,” she said, finishing her second drink. “Remember the great toothpaste incident?”

“You replaced my toothpaste with mayonnaise. I couldn’t brush my teeth for a week without gagging.” I was grinning like an idiot, drunk on nostalgia and something else I couldn’t name. “Though I definitely got you back with the hair dye in your shampoo.”

“My mom thought I was going prematurely gray!” She slapped my arm, and the contact sent heat shooting through me. “I had to explain why a twelve-year-old needed color correction at a salon.”

Marcus texted then—stuck at work, couldn’t make it. I should have been disappointed, but all I felt was relief. The idea of sharing this space with anyone else felt wrong somehow.

“Friend bail?” Emma asked, reading my expression.

“Yeah. You hungry? I was supposed to get dinner, but…” I let the invitation hang there.

She considered me for a long moment, her green eyes unreadable. “I know a place. Great tapas, terrible lighting. Very conducive to… catching up.”

Twenty minutes later, we were squeezed into a corner booth at a dimly lit restaurant that smelled of garlic and saffron. The table was small enough that our knees touched, and neither of us moved away. She ordered for both of us—grilled octopus, dates wrapped in bacon, manchego with quince paste.

“Still allergic to shellfish?” she asked, and something in my chest twisted at the realization that she remembered.

“Yeah. Deathly. Though I’ve gotten better at avoiding it since I’m not twelve and stupid anymore.”

“Debatable.” She stole an olive from my plate, her fingers brushing my knuckles. “You were pretty stupid about that girl in eighth grade. What was her name? Madison? The one who used you to get closer to Jake Morrison?”

“Jesus, you remember that?” I nearly choked on my wine. “I tried to erase that entire year from my memory.”

“Please, I lived through your moping. You wrote her that terrible poem. Something about her eyes being like… what was it? ‘Pools of liquid sorrow’?” She dissolved into giggles, and I found myself laughing too, the kind of laughter that comes from shared humiliation and time.

“Like you were any better with Tommy Chen. You followed him around like a puppy for months.”

“That was different. He was teaching me guitar.”

“Right. Guitar. That’s why you practiced kissing on your pillow and named it Tommy.”

Her mouth fell open. “You weren’t supposed to see that!”

“I saw a lot of things, Em.” The words came out lower than intended, and the air between us shifted. Became charged. “We lived together. Shared walls. Shared space.”

“Shared secrets,” she added softly. Her hand rested on the table, palm up. An invitation.

I traced my finger across her lifeline, watching her pupils dilate. “Remember that night during the thunderstorm? When you crawled into my bed because you were scared?”

“You held my hand until I fell asleep.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I never told anyone about that.”

“Me neither.” I linked our fingers properly now, and she didn’t pull away. “I thought about it sometimes. Over the years. Random moments when I’d hear your name or see someone who looked like you.”

“I googled you once. After college. Saw you’d won some design award.” She squeezed my hand. “I was proud of you. Proud of us both for making it out intact.”

The waiter appeared with our dessert—churros with thick chocolate sauce—and we separated reluctantly. But when she dipped a churro into the chocolate and held it to my lips, I knew we were past pretending this was just dinner.

“Still like spicy food?” she asked, watching me lick chocolate from my bottom lip.

“Yeah. Though I’ve developed more sophisticated tastes.”

“Is that so?” She leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear. “What else have you developed a taste for?”

We paid the check, our hands fumbling for wallets and cash, every brush of skin against skin a promise of what was coming. Out on the sidewalk, the cool Chicago air hit me like a bucket of water, but it did nothing to douse the heat simmering between us. She looped her arm through mine, her body warm against my side as we began the six-block walk to her place.

“This feels inevitable, doesn’t it?” she said after a block of heavy, loaded silence. “Like we’ve been walking toward this since you moved out.”

“Maybe.” My mind was a riot of conflicting thoughts. The rational part screamed warnings about tangled histories and complications, about the ghost of our parents’ failed marriage hovering over us. But that voice was drowned out by the feel of her arm in mine, by the memory of her hand in mine during that long-ago storm. “It also feels insane, Em. You know that, right?”

She stopped walking, turning to face me under the glow of a streetlamp. “Do you think I don’t? I’ve spent the last two hours cataloging every reason why this is a terrible idea. The family history. The geography. The fact that we used to share a bathroom and I know exactly what brand of toothpaste you prefer.” She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. “But I also know that when I saw you tonight, it wasn’t like seeing an old friend. It was like… like finding a piece of myself I didn’t know was missing. And I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of pretending that connection wasn’t real just because it doesn’t fit into a neat little box.”

Her words stripped away my last pretense of hesitation. “I spent three years sharing a house with you, sharing holidays, sharing the fallout when it all fell apart. I thought that chapter was closed. But seeing you…” I shook my head, unable to articulate the sheer gravitational pull I felt. “It doesn’t feel like going back. It feels like starting something completely new, with the only person who already knows all the old parts.”

She reached up and touched my cheek, her thumb brushing my scruff. “Then let’s start it.”

We walked the remaining blocks in a silence that was no longer tense, but thick with anticipation. I studied her profile in the city’s half-light, noticing the confident set of her shoulders, the way she moved with a grace that gangly kid had never possessed. I wondered what she saw when she looked at me. The boy she remembered, or the man I’d become—taller, broader from years of rock climbing, my own hands marked by ink stains and the faint scar on my knuckle from the time I’d punched a locker after Dad told me we were moving.

When we reached her building—a converted warehouse with exposed brick and huge windows—she paused at the entrance.

“This is me.” She turned to face me, backlit by the lobby lights. “You could… come up. For coffee. If you want.”

I stepped closer, crowding her against the cool metal door. “I don’t drink coffee after eight. Keeps me up.”

“Good.” She fumbled with her keys, and I caught her wrist. “Caleb…”

“Emma.” I brushed my thumb across her pulse point, felt it racing. “Last chance to be sensible.”

“Sensible is overrated.” She pulled me inside, her grip firm and sure.

The lobby was industrial-chic, polished concrete and steel. The elevator doors were mirrored, and I caught our reflection as we waited—her, flushed and beautiful in her silk blouse; me, looking rougher and more intense than I felt, my paint-stained hoodie a stark contrast to her polished exterior. She saw me looking and smiled.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

“Just noticing the differences,” I said. “You used to have a gap between your front teeth.”

“And you used to be skinnier than me. Now look at you.” Her gaze traveled over my reflection, taking in my shoulders, the width of my chest under the worn fabric. “All grown up.”

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. The doors had barely closed before she was on me, pressing me against the wall with a desperation that matched my own. Her mouth found mine—soft, tasting of wine and chocolate—and I groaned into the kiss. She’d been twelve when I last touched her, all knobby knees and awkward angles. Now she fit against me perfectly, her curves molding to my harder planes.

“Fuck,” I muttered against her lips. “This is…”

“Don’t think. Not yet.” She bit my bottom lip gently. “Just… let me have this. Let us have this.”

The elevator dinged for her floor. We stumbled out, a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths, down a short hallway to her door. She got it open on the second try, and then we were inside.

Her apartment was all clean lines and warm colors—burnt orange pillows on a gray couch, plants cascading from macrame hangers, bookshelves overflowing. It smelled like her—that vanilla and floral scent, mixed with leather and old paper. She led me straight to the bedroom, where moonlight streamed through skylights onto a bed covered in white linen. We stood at the foot of it, breathing hard, the weight of years pressing down on us.

“Last chance to back out,” she said, though her hands were already working the buttons of my shirt. “Say the word and we go back to being… whatever we were.”

I answered by pulling her blouse over her head, revealing smooth skin and a black lace bra that made my mouth water. “No more backing out. No more pretending we weren’t heading here from the moment I saw you at the bar.”

She made quick work of my belt while I unzipped her skirt, letting it pool at her feet. When she stepped out of it, wearing only matching black panties and heels, I had to grip her hips to stay upright.

“Jesus, Em. You’re…”

“Different from the girl who used to steal your comic books?” She pushed my shirt off my shoulders, her nails scraping lightly down my chest. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the tattoo spanning my left pectoral—an intricate, geometric wolf I’d gotten in my twenties. “Well, that’s new.”

“A lot of things are new.” I shrugged off the shirt completely, watching her gaze trace the lines of my torso, the definition in my arms from years of climbing. She reached out, her fingers tracing the tattoo, then lower, over the faint trail of hair leading below my waistband.

“Good,” she breathed. “I want to be different too. I want to be everything you didn’t know you were waiting for.”

I lowered her to the bed, following her down into the softness. Her skin was hot under my palms as I traced every curve, learning her anew. When I kissed my way down her throat, she arched into me with a sound that went straight to my cock.

“Tell me,” I murmured against her collarbone, my voice rough. “Tell me you’ve imagined this since that night at the lake house, when we stayed up too late and you fell asleep on my shoulder.”

She went still beneath me for a heartbeat. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything about that summer.” I kissed the hollow of her throat. “I remember you in that red bikini, even though you’d kill me for saying it. I remember wanting to push you off the dock just to have an excuse to pull you out of the water.”

Her laugh was shaky. “You’re such a liar. You were horrified when I started developing that year.”

“I was twelve and confused.” I unclasped her bra, freeing her breasts—fuller than I’d imagined, with dusky pink nipples that tightened under my gaze. “Now I’m not confused at all.”

When I closed my lips around one peak, she gasped and threaded her fingers through my hair, holding me there. “Caleb… God, just like that.” She was writhing beneath me, and I hadn’t even gotten her panties off yet. “I used to touch myself thinking about you. After you moved away. After I was old enough to understand why I missed you so much.”

Her confession sent a jolt through me. I moved to her other breast, sucking harder, while my hand slid down her stomach to the waistband of her panties. She was already wet when I slipped my fingers beneath the lace, her arousal coating my fingers as I found her clit.

“Look at me,” I said, and it wasn’t a generic command—it was a need to anchor this moment in the history we shared. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed with pleasure. “I want to watch you. I want to see the girl who wasn’t afraid of thunderstorms finally let go.”

I worked her slowly, building her up with the same deliberate pace we’d used to walk here, my fingers circling and pressing while my thumb stroked her inner thigh. She chanted my name, but it was interspersed with fragmented memories. “The treehouse… you never let me up…”

“You were a terrible climber,” I growled against her skin, increasing the pressure.

“Let me… let me up now…”

The double meaning shattered her. She came apart on my fingers, her pussy clenching around them with a series of sharp, helpless cries. I watched every ripple of pleasure cross her face, committing it to memory—this was my Emma, but not mine, entirely new and devastatingly familiar.

When the tremors subsided, she pushed me onto my back with surprising strength, working my pants and boxers off with determined hands.

“My turn,” she said, wrapping her fingers around my cock. Her touch was sure, not tentative. “I’ve wondered about this. About whether the boy who cried when his goldfish died could feel this… formidable.”

She took me into her mouth slowly, torturously, her tongue swirling around the head before she took me deeper. I had to grip the sheets to keep from thrusting up into the wet heat of her mouth. When she hummed around me, the vibration nearly sent me over the edge.

“Emma, fuck. You have to stop or I’m going to—”

She pulled off with a pop, grinning wickedly. “Not yet. I want you inside me when you come. Want to feel you lose control the way I just did.”

She crawled up my body, her breasts dragging across my chest, and positioned herself above me. I could feel her heat, how ready she was, but she paused with just the tip of me inside her. The sensation was agonizing, exquisite.

“Say it,” she whispered, her eyes locked on mine. “Say you’ve wanted this since the day I replaced your toothpaste. Say this is the only revenge that ever mattered.”

Her words, so specific to our shared war, broke something open in me. “I’ve wanted you since I realized missing you felt different than missing anyone else,” I groaned, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. “Since I understood that the person who knew all my worst secrets was the only one I ever truly trusted. Now, Emma. Please.”

She sank down slowly, taking me inch by inch until I was fully seated inside her. We both stilled, a sharp, shared intake of breath echoing in the moonlit room. It wasn’t just sex; it was a threshold crossing. The final, irrevocable step over a line we’d been toeing for years.

Her eyes searched mine, and in them I saw the same dizzying mix—recognition, fear, wonder, and a defiant, blazing joy. “No going back now, stepbrother,” she breathed, the old label a deliberate provocation, a claiming of our complicated past even as we left it behind.

“Good,” I ground out. “I don’t want to go back.”

Then she started to move, and thinking became impossible. She rode me with the same intensity she’d brought to everything as a kid—determined, focused, absolutely relentless. I met her thrust for thrust, my hands mapping her body like I was memorizing sacred ground. One hand slid between us, finding her clit again.

“Remember the fort we built in the living room?” I rasped, my thumb circling in time with her movements. “The one your mom made us take down?”

She nodded, her hair falling around her face in a sweaty, beautiful curtain. “We… we slept in it…”

“And you kicked me in your sleep.” I increased the pressure, feeling her inner muscles begin to flutter. “You’re still kicking me, Em. You’ve been kicking me for thirteen years.”

That did it. Her orgasm tore through her, a silent, breathless cry shaping her mouth before the sound broke free. Her body clenched around me, milking my cock with rhythmic pulses that shattered my control. I followed her over, my release ripped from me with a guttural groan as I emptied myself into her, the world narrowing to the point where our bodies joined.

She collapsed onto my chest, both of us slick with sweat and breathing hard. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close as our heart rates slowed. The moonlight shifted across the floor. Somewhere in the building, a pipe clanged.

When she finally rolled off me, we stayed tangled together, legs intertwined, her head on my shoulder. Her fingers traced the lines of my tattoo again, then drifted to the scar on my knuckle.

“You never told me how you got this,” she said softly.

“Locker. The day Dad told me we were leaving.” The admission felt raw, even now. “I was so angry. Not just at him. At… everything. At losing…”

“Me?” she finished.

I turned my head, meeting her gaze. “Yeah. You.”

She kissed the scar, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache. “We’re pretty messed up, you know that?”

“Probably.” I brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “But I don’t think I care.”

We lay in silence for a long while, just breathing together. The old fears whispered—this was complicated, messy, potentially disastrous. Our families were a landmine. Geography was a problem. The past was a ghost that could haunt us. But lying here with her skin against mine, those fears felt distant, theoretical. The reality was her weight on my arm, the smell of her in my lungs, the profound rightness that had settled in my bones.

“I have to be in Portland in three days,” I said eventually, my fingers drawing patterns on her back.

“I know.” She traced circles on my chest. “And I have a presentation Monday that could make or break my career.”

I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at her. Her face was soft in the dim light, her lips swollen from kissing. “What if this isn’t just tonight, Em? What if we’re stupid enough to try for more?”

She reached up, her palm cool against my cheek. “What if we’re smart enough to finally take what we want?” She pulled me down for a slow, searching kiss that tasted of possibility. When we broke apart, she smiled, a real, unguarded smile that reached her eyes. “Now stop talking. We have a lot of time to make up for.”

Her hand slid down my stomach, her intent clear. As she moved to straddle me again, her hair creating a private, perfumed tent around our faces, I didn’t think about tomorrow, or Portland, or presentations. I didn’t think about the past, or step-siblings, or divorces. There was only this: her body, her breath, the second chance beginning in the dark.