The Quarantine Between Us

The first thing I noticed was the way he filled doorways now. Not that Derek had grown—he was twenty-three, same age as me—but somehow my eyes had learned a new way of measuring him. Shoulders that used to look merely athletic now seemed engineered to block escape routes. Hands that had beaten me at Mario Kart a thousand times suddenly looked big enough to cover my whole ribcage. I blamed the house. Four bedrooms, two baths, one floor, and nowhere to hide when the governor slammed the state shut for “fourteen days to flatten the curve.” Fourteen became thirty, thirty became indefinite, and now every breath I took tasted recycled from his lungs first.

Our parents had left for their second-honeymoon cruise the day before the travel ban hit. My mom, his dad. A blended family for five years, long enough for the photo on the mantel—the four of us at a cheesy theme park, Derek’s arm slung awkwardly over my shoulders—to feel like a real memory, not a forced smile. They were still floating somewhere off Barbados, crew quarantined in their cabins, while Derek and I played house in the suburbs. Two weeks together became four, became six. The joke on social media was that everyone would either come out pregnant or murderous. I figured we had fifty-fifty odds, but I hadn’t accounted for the third option: this slow, tectonic shift that felt less like falling and more like recognizing a gravity that had always been there, waiting for the world to go quiet enough to hear its pull.

I tried to stay professional about it. We split chores like roommates: I cooked, he did dishes; he took trash, I handled laundry. We kept opposite sides of the couch, six feet of caution tape stitched into the air between us. At night I lay in my childhood bedroom and listened to him pace overhead, floorboards groaning like they were jealous of the weight. I started dreaming in thuds.

The silence was the worst part. It wasn’t empty; it was thick, charged, filled with all the things we didn’t say. Like how we both carefully avoided the hallway that led to our parents’ bedroom. Or how, when we passed the mantel, my eyes would skate over that happy-family photo as if it were a landmine. He was my stepbrother. The word echoed in my head sometimes, a flat, legal term that felt utterly disconnected from the man who laughed with his whole body, who remembered I hated mushrooms in my omelet, whose scent on a discarded hoodie could make my stomach flip. The wrongness was a low hum in my blood, a constant, quiet alarm. I’d spent years training myself not to see him that way. The quarantine had erased all that training in a month.

The first crack in the drywall came on day thirty-seven, when the internet died. No streaming, no porn, no doom-scrolling. Just the two of us and the cable package nobody had updated since 2014. Derek padded downstairs in gym shorts and a T-shirt worn so thin I could count the freckles on his collarbone. He smelled like the last squirt of body wash we’d rationed for a week—eucalyptus and something sharper, male and anxious.

“Pick your poison,” he said, waving the remote like a white flag. “Hallmark or History Channel.”

I picked History, because at least the Hitler documentaries would keep my head where it belonged. Ten minutes in I caught him watching me instead of the tank battalions. Not sneaking glances—flat-out staring, the way you stare at a puzzle you’re suddenly sure has one piece missing.

“What?” I whispered, because the silence had grown teeth.

“Your neck does this thing when you’re bored.” His voice scraped lower than I remembered. “Little tendon pops.”

I slapped a hand over the traitor tendon. “Stop inventorying me.”

“Can’t help it. You’re the only art installation left in the museum.”

He didn’t apologize. Just turned back to the screen like he’d catalogued enough for now. I sat there feeling branded, tendon pulsing under my palm, hyperaware that my pajama shorts had a hole in the inner seam wide enough for his gaze to slip through.

That night I took a shower longer than the drought allowed. Water ran cold halfway through, but I stayed, forehead against tile, pretending the spray could erase the feel of being observed. When I stepped out, the mirror had already fogged with someone else’s breath. A single handprint cleared at eye level, big enough that I could slot my fingers into the ghost of his. He’d been in here. Recently. Maybe listening. Maybe more.

I told myself it was innocent—shared house, foggy mirror, big deal. But I locked the door after that. Click of the button felt like lying.

The second crack arrived on day forty-three. I’d started wearing headphones to drown out his footsteps, but the battery on my phone gave up the ghost mid-workout. Jillian Michaels froze in warrior pose; I was left killing time with push-ups when Derek wandered into the living room doing the shirtless thing again. He’d quit bothering with tees somewhere around week five. I’d quit pretending not to notice. The defined lines of his stomach, the trail of dark hair leading into his shorts—these were facts of my environment now, as mundane and as dangerous as the knife block in the kitchen.

“Form’s off,” he said, dropping to the rug beside me. “Elbows at forty-five.”

Before I could swat him, his palms slid to my ribs, adjusting. Skin on skin. Summer sweat between us. I collapsed, cheek to carpet, heart sprinting. He stayed hovering, breath stirring the baby hairs at my temple.

“Better,” he murmured. “Though you’re tight here—” Thumb dug gently into the knot under my shoulder blade. I bit back a noise that would’ve belonged in a different genre entirely.

“Personal-space bubble,” I reminded us both, my voice strained.

“Quarantine popped every bubble we had.” His laugh rumbled through his chest into my back. “Besides, you’re cramping. I’m medical personnel now.”

He kneaded the knot again, clinical except for the way his pinky kept brushing the edge of my sports bra. I counted backward from ten, tasted copper from biting my lip. On three I rolled, nearly knocking him over. The movement put us nose to nose, him propped on elbows, me flat on my spine. House silence ballooned. The air felt suddenly scuba-thick.

“Cass,” he said, and the name had never sounded that small in his mouth.

I waited for him to lever away, to break the spell with a joke, to do the right thing. Instead his gaze dipped to my mouth, lingered, then snapped back up—asking without asking. I could’ve ended it there: knee to groin, witty deflection, sprint to my room. Instead I lifted my head an inch, erasing the last sober margin. The sound he made was half groan, half surrender, and then his lips found mine like they already owned the deed.

Kissing Derek tasted like the first illegal thing I’d ever done: salt from his run, stale coffee, and underneath it, mint floss he must’ve used prepping for this moment. I opened without deciding to, tongue sliding along his, shocked at how neatly we fit—like the house had been sanding us into each other’s shapes for weeks. He tilted, deepening, hand cradling my skull so the carpet wouldn’t burn. Considerate even while hijacking my sanity.

We rolled once, twice, until I straddled him, thighs clamped to his hips. His shorts did nothing to hide how much he liked this development. I rocked—just testing—and the groan he gave vibrated through my clit like a tuning fork. I did it again, slower, watching his eyes glaze. Power surged, hot and heady. I’d spent six weeks feeling hunted; now I had the gun.

Then, like a bucket of ice water, the image of my mom’s smile flashed behind my eyes. Her trust. The word stepbrother screamed in my head, louder this time.

I broke the kiss, pushing back on his chest. “Wait. Derek, wait.”

He stilled instantly, his hands falling from my waist to the rug. His breath was ragged. “What’s wrong?”

“This is… we can’t.” I scrambled off him, putting a foot of space between us that felt like a canyon. “Our parents. What we are. This is messed up.”

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. For a long moment, he just looked at me, his expression unreadable. “You think I don’t know that?” he finally said, his voice low. “You think I haven’t been lying awake thinking the exact same thing? That photo on the mantel haunts me, Cass.”

“Then why?” The question was a plea.

“Because the world ended,” he said simply, gesturing to the silent, empty house around us. “And in the apocalypse, all the old rules feel like they’re written in sand. All I know is, for weeks, you’re the only thing in this house that’s felt real. That’s felt right.”

The confession hung between us, raw and terrifying. The right thing to do was to stand up, go to my room, and lock the door. To wait for the world to start again and pretend this never happened. But the right thing felt abstract, distant, like a rumor from a country that didn’t exist anymore. The real things were here: the ache between my legs, the flush on his skin, the profound loneliness that had been eating me alive for forty-three days.

I didn’t speak. I just looked at him, at the conflict in his eyes that mirrored my own. Then, slowly, I crawled back across the rug. Not onto his lap, but to sit beside him, our shoulders touching. We sat in silence for a long time, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant tick of a clock. The tension didn’t leave; it changed, deepening from a spark into a slow, smoldering burn.

“It doesn’t have to be everything,” he said quietly, his fingers brushing the back of my hand. “It can just be this. For now. While the world’s gone.”

It was a terrible, beautiful lie, and I chose to believe it. I turned my head and kissed him again. This time it was slower, deeper, a deliberate choice rather than a collision. It tasted like forgiveness and sin, and I drank it down.

“Tell me to stop,” I said, surprising us both, my lips still against his.

“Don’t you dare.” His hands came back to my waist, thumbs stroking under my shirt, teasing the underwire. “But tell me you want it first.”

I leaned down until my lips brushed his ear. “I want…” I let the pause twist, felt him twitch beneath me. “…to be on top.”

A laugh barked out of him, raw and delighted. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

I sat up, peeled my shirt off, sports bra following. The overhead fan stirred my nipples to peaks; his gaze worshiped like he’d never seen breasts before. Maybe he hadn’t—not like these, not this close, not forbidden. I guided his palms, let him weigh, thumb, learn. When he pinched experimentally, lightning shot south; I ground down unconsciously, riding the ridge of him through double layers of cotton.

“Fuck, Cass.” His hips bucked. “Need you naked. Need to see all of you.”

I scrambled off long enough to shove shorts and underwear down. He watched every inch emerge like I was unveiling a national treasure. Then he stood, shoved his own shorts off, and we faced each other across the living-room rug—two adults who’d shared a bathroom for years but had never actually seen the equipment. His cock jutted thick and curved, darker than I expected, tip already slick. The sight punched a whimper from my throat.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, voice gravel. “Let me watch how you like it.”

The command should’ve rankled; instead it slicked me hotter. I slid fingers through my folds, showing him the rhythm I used when fantasies grew too loud at 2 a.m.—slow circles, dipping shallow, back to circles. His fist closed around his length, matching tempo. We stared, mutual voyeurism lit only by the television’s blue glow. Documentary tanks rolled across his abs.

“Enough,” he growled after a minute—or ten. He dropped to his knees, tugged me down. “Need to taste.”

He pressed me onto the couch, spread thighs over his shoulders. First lick was gentle, exploratory; the second slid the full length of me, ending with a flick to my clit that made me choke on oxygen. He hummed, appreciative, then settled in like a man who’d been assigned homework and planned to earn extra credit. Tongue traced patterns I didn’t know my body could read—alphabet, spirals, figure eights—until I was clawing cushions, heels drumming his back.

“Inside—” I begged.

Two fingers pushed in, curling, finding the spot that turned my spine to liquid gold. He sucked my clit at the same time and I came apart, orgasm ripping through so hard my vision whited. He rode every pulse, easing pressure only when I shoved at his forehead, oversensitive and gasping.

“Jesus.” I collapsed, boneless. “You’ve been…practicing?”

“Lockdown hobby,” he deadpanned, wiping his chin. “You’re my final exam.”

I laughed, shaky, then reached for him. “My turn.”

He started to protest—too close, didn’t need it—but I fisted his cock, thumb spreading pre-come over the crown. The sound he made was pure animal. I stroked root to tip, learning the weight, the heat, the way his breath caught when I twisted just so. Then I leaned forward and licked the slit, salt-bitter bursting across my tongue. His hands plunged into my hair—not pushing, just anchoring—while I took him deeper, hollowing cheeks. I’d always loved the power of giving head, the moment a guy realizes his vocabulary has been reduced to your name and God.

“Cass—fuck—stop.” He tugged my hair gently. “Wanna come with you. Inside.”

I released him with a wet pop, met his eyes. “Condom?”

“Wallet. Couch cushion.” He looked sheepish. “Put one there after week two.”

“Confident.”

“Hopeful,” he corrected.

I fetched the foil square, tore open, rolled latex down slowly, torturing. He let me, jaw clenched, thigh muscles jumping. When I straddled him again, we both paused—last chance to pretend morality might win. Then I sank down, inch by inch, splitting open around him. The stretch bordered on pain; the fullness felt like answering a question I hadn’t realized I was asking.

“Okay?” he rasped.

I answered by rolling hips, finding the angle that dragged him across my front wall. Pleasure sparked, rebuilt. His hands guided, gripped, learned the bounce. We started slow—glide, retreat, glide—then faster as need overtook choreography. The couch protested, springs squealing an obscene soundtrack. I leaned back, bracing palms on his knees, letting him watch where we joined—his cock slick with me, disappearing again and again.

“So goddamn beautiful,” he groaned. “Touch yourself. Come on me.”

I obeyed, fingers flying. The second climax built sharper, faster, coiling low. When it broke I clamped down, milking him. He shouted, thrust up hard, and followed—pulse after pulse filling the condom, hips stuttering through aftershocks.

We stayed locked, breathing each other’s air, until the sweat between us cooled. I peeled off, disposed of latex, returned to find him sprawled exactly where I’d left him, arm over eyes like he couldn’t face the ceiling yet.

“Well,” I said, curling into his side. “That happened.”

He huffed a laugh, pulled me closer. “Tell me you’re not sorry.”

I listened to his heartbeat—fast, steady, alive. The guilt was there, a cold pebble in my gut, but it was drowned out by a roaring, radiant warmth. “Not even a little.”

We napped there, limbs tangled, until the documentary looped back to the start and tanks rolled across Poland again. Twilight painted the windows violet when I woke to his fingers tracing constellations across my shoulder.

“Round two?” he murmured, half hard already.

I pretended to ponder. “Shower first. I’m sticky.”

“Shared resource conservation,” he agreed solemnly.

We left clothes abandoned and took the stairs two at a time. The house felt different now, the air charged with a new secret. As we passed the mantel, I saw him glance at the family photo, his expression tightening for a fraction of a second before he looked away. The sight sent a fresh pang through me, a mix of guilt and defiance.

Hot water lasted six minutes; we used every second. He pressed me against the cool tile, his body a furnace at my back. His palms slicked with soap slid over my breasts, pinching my nipples until I gasped, then down, over my belly, between my thighs. He found me still sensitive, swollen, and he worked me with a focused intensity that was entirely new, his fingers circling my clit while his other hand braced against the wall.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he breathed into my ear, his voice vibrating through me. “Every little touch. I want to learn all of them.”

I could only moan, arching back against him, water sluicing over us both. When I was trembling on the edge, he turned me around, kissed me deep and filthy, tasting of me and mint. He lifted me, my back against the tile, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. He entered me in one smooth, sure stroke, and we both cried out. This was different from the couch—primal, urgent, a claiming. He fucked me with deep, driving thrusts, his face buried in my neck, his groans muffled against my skin. I came first, a sharp, shocking climax that made my toes curl against his back. He followed seconds after, his whole body shuddering, his grip on me almost painful.

We slumped together under the spray, breathing hard. The water ran cold, shocking us back to the moment. We dried each other off with a tenderness that felt more intimate than anything that had come before, his thumbs wiping droplets from my lashes, my hands smoothing the towel over the muscles of his back.

Wrapped in mismatched towels, we raided the kitchen. The middle of the night had always felt like stolen time, but now it felt like our own sovereign nation. Pancakes at midnight were our first act of treason. Flour dusted our skin; I traced patterns in it on his chest. He drizzled syrup in the hollow of my throat and licked it clean, his tongue hot and slow. Laughter bubbled up, light and giddy, as batter sizzled on the griddle.

I was leaning over the island, flipping a pancake, when he stepped behind me. His hands settled on my hips, his towel tenting against my bare backside. He nuzzled my damp hair aside and kissed the nape of my neck.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, the words a warm vibration against my skin. His hands slid my towel aside. “It’s like I’ve been starving and didn’t know it.”

He entered me again, slowly, his body covering mine. This time was languid, deep, a slow burn rather than a fire. He moved inside me with a rhythm that felt less like fucking and more like learning a new language with our bodies. One hand splayed on my stomach, holding me to him, the other braced on the counter. I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, my focus narrowing to the point where we were joined, to the slick, hot friction, to the smell of pancakes and sex and him. We didn’t speak; we just learned. The shape of his pleasure in the catch of his breath. The way my body clenched when he bit my shoulder. We came quietly this time, a shared sigh in the dark kitchen, a slow unraveling that left us leaning together over the counter, spent and sticky in a whole new way.

We ate cold pancakes off the same plate, feeding each other bites, our legs tangled under the kitchen table. The fear tried to creep back in—what happens tomorrow, what happens when the world returns—but we pushed it down with sticky kisses and soft touches. For now, this was enough.

Day forty-four arrived with gray light and the realization that we hadn’t closed curtains. I found him in the backyard, phone to ear, speaking low. My stomach dropped—had someone found out? Would he regret? The cold pebble of guilt expanded into a stone. I stood frozen in the doorway, watching the tense line of his shoulders, preparing for the axe to fall.

Instead he waved me over, covering the mic.

“Parents’ ship finally docked,” he said, his voice low. “They fly home tomorrow. Quarantine in a hotel first—another two weeks.”

I exhaled a shaky breath, relief so potent it felt like dizziness. Two more weeks. A reprieve. Time enough to live in this bubble a little longer, time enough to maybe figure out how to exist outside of it.

He pulled me against him, my robe and his towel insufficient armor against the morning chill. I could feel the rapid beat of his heart against my cheek.

“Hey, Dad,” he continued into the phone, his voice shifting into something easy, familiar. The voice of a son. “Yeah, we’re surviving. Cass says hi.” He winked at me, but his eyes were shadowed. “No, we’re getting along fine. Better than fine.”

The lie was smooth, effortless. It should have comforted me. It chilled me instead. He was already compartmentalizing, building the wall between this reality and the one waiting for us. He hung up and we stood wrapped together, watching robins hop across dewy grass. Things to say stacked in my throat—rules, labels, futures, the photo on the mantel, the word stepbrother that now felt like a lie and a life sentence all at once.

Instead I tilted my face, accepted the soft kiss he offered. It was different from the kisses of the night before—softer, sweeter, edged with a sadness I now tasted as clearly as the maple syrup from our skin.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said against my lips. “One day at a time.”

I wanted to believe him. Quarantine had stripped life to essentials: food, touch, laughter, the person who kept you sane. But as we walked inside, his arm around my shoulders, I knew the world was already creeping back in. It was in the phone call, in the photo, in the easy lie he’d just told. His kiss still tasted like home and sin, and I knew, with a certainty that settled in my bones, that one would eventually cancel out the other.