The summer night wraps the house in a heavy, restless quiet, the kind that amplifies every creak and hum. I’m nineteen, back from college, my skin sticky with the heat that lingers even after midnight. The past year has changed things — Kylie and I aren’t just step-siblings anymore, not after those stolen moments in the guest room, where whispers and touches crossed lines we can’t uncross. Now, lying in my childhood bed, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above, I can’t sleep. My mind’s a tangle of her — her hazel eyes, her bold laugh, the way her body felt under mine. The house is asleep, but I’m not, so I slip into the dark, drawn to the garage, where the familiar scent of oil and wood might quiet the ache. Little do I know, the night’s about to pull us into its orbit again, reckless and undeniable.