Harper masturbates in front of Liam pt.1

Sister secretly masturbates in front of her brother

The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event

The storm outside sounded like fingers drumming impatiently on a tabletop—erratic, relentless. Sixteen year old Harper had lost count of how many times the power had flickered, leaving only the dim blue glow of the emergency broadcast on the screen, some reporter shouting over wind about downed power lines in Vynter’s Grove. The blanket over her lap was a fortress, scratchy wool pulled taut just above her knees, concealing the slow, secret rhythm of her fingers beneath.

She’d assumed her twin brother-Liam was asleep—he’d sprawled across the opposite end of the couch hours ago, his breathing steady, his phone slipping from his fingers onto the cushion. The storm had lulled him into that heavy, dreamless stupor people fall into when the world outside is too loud to think. Harper’s own breath hitched, her teeth catching her lower lip as she pressed deeper beneath the blanket, the heat between her thighs building in slow, deliberate waves.

Restless and bored, thinks she’s being subtle—her fingers tracing lazy circles beneath the thick throw blanket draped over her lap, her breaths slow and controlled. The storm outside provides cover for the soft, wet sounds beneath the fabric. Liam shifts slightly on the couch, and Harper freezes—but no, he’s still asleep. Probably. His breathing hasn’t changed.

The quilt moves with her, subtle at first—just the slide of her fingers beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts, a testing press where she’s already slick. Harper exhales through her nose, slow, careful, but the air hitches when Liam’s foot jerks against the armrest. Her pulse stutters.

She finds the slick seam of herself, the pads of her fingers gliding through arousal already gathering. Her fingers move with practiced stealth beneath the knitted throw blanket, her breath shallow as she watches her brother, Liam, from the corner of her eye. His arm twitches—his breathing shifts—and for a moment, Harper thinks she’s been caught. But he just rolls onto his side, his back to her now, his exhale long and slow.

She should stop but she didnt. Her fingers traced slow circles over her clit, hidden but reckless, spurred on by the thrill of possible discovery. The blanket twitched with her movements—small betrayals. Liam shifted again, this time rolling onto his back with a sigh that wasn't sleepy at all.

Wetness clung to her fingers beneath the fabric. Not just the humid press of the storm-charged air—no, this was something thicker, warmer. The kind that made her thighs stick together when she shifted just slightly. Harper bit back a gasp as her fingertips slid lower, dipping into the heat between her legs. The blanket rustled, a traitorous sound she prayed the storm would swallow.

Outside, rain lashed against the windows in erratic bursts, mimicking the rhythm of her pulse. The couch creaked—Liam rolling onto his side again—but this time his exhale was sharp, too alert. Harper froze, fingers still inside herself, breath trapped somewhere behind her ribs.

The scent was thick now, unmistakable. Not just sweat, not just fabric softener—something warmer, muskier, curling up from beneath the blanket like steam from pavement after summer rain. She tried to exhale slowly, but her lungs burned. The storm wouldn’t drown this out.

Liam’s fingers twitched against the couch cushion. His voice, when it came, was rough with sleep—or something else. "Harper." Just her name. No question. No accusation. But the way he said it, low and slow, made her stomach drop.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She was wet enough that the scent curled between them like smoke, thick and ripe, an unspoken confession. Wet earth, Musk and salt and something sweetly sour beneath it, like fruit left too long in the sun, unmistakable as a struck match in a dark room.

Liam’s fingers flexed against the couch cushion again. His voice came slower this time, rough with sleep, half-lidded eyes gleaming in the blue TV light. "You’re really doing that right next to me? You’re shaking the whole couch.”

She thought she was safe—hoodie pulled low, blanket draped just so, her fingers working in slow, slick circles beneath the fabric. But Liam wasn’t sleeping anymore. His voice scraped against the silence, rough and thick, "If your going to do that in front of me, you, might as well let me watch."

Harper’s breath stuttered. The storm outside groaned, rattling the windows. Her fingers stilled, pressed against herself, suddenly too aware of the wetness coating her skin. "I—what?" The word came out thin, half air.

Liam exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. His gaze, heavy-lidded in the flickering blue light, didn’t leave her face. "You heard me." His thumb rubbed absently at the seam of the couch cushion, a lazy rhythm. "Or do you need me to say it again?"

Harper’s pulse hammered in her throat. The blanket over her lap suddenly felt like a lie—too thin, too obvious. She could smell herself on her fingers, salt and sweet musk. Her voice came out cracked. "I wasn’t—"

Liam’s laugh was low, rough with sleep—or something darker. "Bullshit." His knee nudged hers under the blanket. "You’ve been at it for ten minutes. "You really thought I wouldn’t notice?"

Harper’s fingers twitched against herself, her fingers tracing lazy circles beneath the thick throw blanket draped over her lap, her breaths slow and controlled. She swallowed. "Notice what?"

Liam snorted, shifting on the couch, the fabric creaking beneath him. His voice was rough—not with sleep now, but something lower, thicker. "Your fingers moving under the blanket," he said, slow, deliberate, like he was savoring each word. "The way you keep biting your lip. The way your hips keep rocking" His knee pressed against hers beneath the blanket, solid and warm. "And i can smell your pussy from here."

Harper's breath stopped. The storm outside rattled the windows, but the air between them was suddenly still, charged. Her fingers were still pressed against herself, wet heat clinging to her skin. She should pull away. She should stop. But her body wasn't listening.

Liam's knee stayed pressed against hers, a warm, solid line beneath the blanket. His eyes—dark in the flickering blue light—didn't blink. "You gonna stop?" His voice was rough, low. A challenge.

Harper's fingers twitched. "Why?" The word slipped out before she could stop it, breathless. Not denial—not anymore. Just the raw, dumb pulse of curiosity.

Liam exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. The blue TV light carved shadows under his cheekbones, his jaw tight. "Because," he said, and his hand moved—not toward her, but to his own lap, adjusting the obvious bulge in his sweatpants with a rough, unapologetic tug. "Your making me hard,"

Harper's fingers twitched again, still pressed against herself. The scent between them was thick now, primal—rain and sweat and something hotter, muskier, rising like steam from beneath the blanket. Her throat worked around nothing. "So?"

Liam's laugh was low, rough at the edges, his fingers dragging lazily over his own thigh. "So," he echoed, stretching the word until it snapped taut between them. His knee pressed harder against hers beneath the blanket, the heat of it searing through the fabric. "You gonna let me watch or what?"

Harper's fingers twitched again, slick against herself. The scent—hers, unmistakable—hung thick between them. She swallowed, her pulse fluttering wild in her throat. "Watch?" Her voice cracked, the word too small, too weak.

Liam's smirk was slow, deliberate, his gaze dragging down her body like fingers tracing skin. "Yeah," he murmured, rough-edged, his knee still pressed tight against hers beneath the blanket. "Watch."

Liam doesn’t move—except to slide his hand under the blanket, his fingers trail the inside of her thigh, "Or" he paused, voice raw, "I could help." His fingers trace upward, slow, deliberate, mapping her skin through the thin fabric of her shorts. Harper’s breath catches—sharp—her own fingers still pressed against herself, frozen now. His fingertips graze the damp cotton covering her, just once, before he pulls away, leaving the ghost of his touch like a brand. "Your call," he murmurs, his knee pressing tighter against hers beneath the blanket. "But either way, im not going anywhere."

The storm outside howls—a gust rattles the windows—but Harper barely hears it. Her pulse thrums in her ears, her fingers twitching against herself, slick with her own wetness. She should stop. She should push him away. Instead, she exhales—shaky—and hooks a finger under the waistband of her shorts, tugging them down just enough to let the blanket fall away. Liam’s breath hitches—a sharp intake—his gaze locked onto the bare skin now exposed between her thighs, glistening in the dim blue light. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice rough, almost reverent.

Her pussy is flushed, swollen—petal-pink folds parted slightly, glistening with arousal, the scent of her thick in the air between them. Liam’s fingers twitch against his thigh, his jaw clenched tight, his pupils blown wide. Harper’s breath stutters as she spreads her legs wider, the damp heat between them almost unbearable now. Liam’s throat works—swallowing hard—his voice scraping out low and ragged. "You’re—" he starts, then stops, his fingers flexing, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and touch. "You’re fucking soaked."

Harper exhales—sharp, shaky—her fingers still pressed against herself, her hips rocking slightly against her own hand. The blanket pools around her waist now, forgotten, the wool scratchy against her bare skin. Liam’s breath hitches—another sharp intake—his gaze locked onto the triangle of dark curls above her slit, the way they cling damply to her skin, framing the slick pink of her. His fingers twitch again, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "You gonna keep going?"

Her hand twitches—her fingers still slick against herself—but she doesn’t stop. She can’t. Not now. Not when his knee is still pressed tight against hers beneath the blanket, the heat of him searing through the fabric. Not when his eyes—dark, hungry—are locked onto her pussy like he’s starving. "Yeah," she breathes, her voice cracking on the word. "Yeah, I am."

His fingers glide over the back of her hand—slow, deliberate—his skin rough against hers. His fingertips trace the tendons in her wrist, the delicate bones of her fingers, the sticky-slick sheen of arousal coating her knuckles. Harper’s breath hitches, her hips rocking involuntarily against her own hand. "Fuck," she whispers, the word trembling out of her.

Liam doesn’t pull away. His fingers tighten—just slightly—around hers, guiding her movements beneath the blanket. "Let me help," he murmurs, his voice gravel-low, his breath warm against her temple. His thumb presses against the base of her palm, forcing her fingers deeper against herself. "You know you want this."

Harper's breath stutters—half-gasp, half-laugh—her hips jerking against the sudden pressure. The storm outside groans, rattling the windows, but the sound is drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears. Liam’s knuckles brush against her inner thigh—rough, calloused—and she realizes with a jolt that his hand isn’t just guiding hers. It’s trapped beneath the blanket too, his fingers tangled with hers, slick with her wetness.

The scent is overwhelming now—musky, primal—and Liam inhales sharply through his nose, his breath hot against her temple. "Jesus," he grits out, his grip tightening on her wrist. "You’re pussy smells so fucking good."

Harper’s stomach clenches, her thighs trembling beneath the scratchy wool blanket. His fingers press hers deeper, dragging her fingertips through slick folds until she gasps, her hips jerking off the couch.

"You like that?" Liam murmurs, his breath hot against her temple. His fingers tighten around hers—calloused knuckles digging into her wrist—as he grinds her hand against her clit in slow, deliberate circles.

Harper whimpers, her head tipping back against the couch. The blanket slips further down her thighs, pooling in the crease of her hips. She should push him away. She should stop. But if feels so good, his grip is relentless, and her body—god, her body—betrays her, arching into the pressure.

Liam exhales sharply through his nose—hot, ragged—his fingers tightening around her wrist as he drags her fingertips lower, deeper. "You're dripping," he grits out. His thumb presses against hers, forcing her fingers to curl inside herself. "Fuck, Harper. You're so fucking wet."

His voice is soothing, almost hypnotic "You gonna come like this?" His knee presses harder against hers, pinning her in place. "With my hand on yours? While I watch?"

The blanket slips further, tangled around her thighs now. The air smells like salt and sweat and something deeper, muskier—something that makes her stomach tighten. She can see the outline his erection pressing against the material of his track pants—thick, straining—and she swallows, her throat dry.

"Keep going," Liam murmurs, his voice smooth and soothing like a hot knife through butter. His fingers tightening around hers. His breath hitches when her fingertip catches on her clit, circling just right. "Yes Harper—just like that."

Her hips jerk involuntarily against her own hand—against his hand guiding hers—and the blanket slips away completely, pooling on the floor. The scent between them thickens, heady and musky, mixing with the damp storm air.

Liam gawks, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted just slightly—not in shock, not in disgust, but something darker, hungrier. His gaze lingers on the way her fingers glisten in the dim blue light, how her clit throbs under slow, teasing circles. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his own breath ragged, his free hand clenching the couch cushion like he’s holding himself back from something reckless.

Harper’s tanned legs, toned from years of soccer and summer hikes, tremble slightly as she spreads them wider—an unspoken invitation. The contrast of her golden skin against the pale fabric of the couch is stark, mesmerizing. Liam exhales sharply, his fingers twitching against her wrist, his grip tightening just enough to make her whimper. "You look so fucking hot like this," he rasps, his voice rough with something raw. "All spread out for me."

The storm outside reaches a crescendo—a gust slams against the windowpanes like it’s trying to break in—but neither of them flinch. Harper’s fingers curl deeper inside herself, guided by Liam’s firm hand, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The scent of her arousal is thick now, mingling with the moist dampness accumulating between her legs

Liam’s free hand moves—hesitant at first—then brushes a stray curl from her forehead, his fingertips lingering against her flushed skin. He inhales deep, nostrils flaring, taking in the mesmerizing aroma of his sisters cunt.

"You smell fucking incredible," he murmurs, voice thick with desire. His fingers tighten around her wrist, guiding her hand in slow, torturous circles that make her toes curl against the couch cushions.

Harper's cries increase—high and thin, almost a whine—before dissolving into a shuddering gasp as Liam's thumb presses down hard on hers, forcing her fingertip to grind against her swollen clit. The sound that escapes her is raw, unfiltered: half-moan, half-plea, strangled in the back of her throat. Liam exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around her wrist, his fingers slick with her wetness. "Louder," he rasps, his voice rough with something dark and hungry. "Let me hear you."

Her breathing increases—sharp, stuttering—as his fingers tighten around hers, forcing her hand to move faster, harder. The noises she makes now are fractured—little punched-out gasps, a whimper caught between her teeth, the wet sound of her fingers working between her thighs. Liam's knee presses harder against hers, pinning her in place as he leans closer, his breath hot against her ear. "That's it, tell me how much you want it,"

Harper's back arches—her ribs visible through her skinny frame and a choked moan escapes her lips, sharp and sudden. Liam exhales sharply, his grip tightening around her wrist. "Louder," he growls, his voice rough, edged with something possessive. "I want to hear how fucking horny you are."

The storm outside mimics her pulse—erratic, wild—as Harper's fingers move faster beneath Liam's guidance. His calloused thumb presses down on hers, forcing her fingertip to circle her clit with relentless precision. "You're—ah—you're making me—" Her words fracture into a gasp as her thighs tremble violently.

Liam doesn’t ease up. His breath is hot against her temple, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he murmurs, "Making you what? Say it." His fingers tighten around her wrist, dragging her slick digits back up to her clit. The sound is obscene—wet skin against swollen flesh—and Harper whimpers, her hips jerking off the couch.

The storm outside groans like a wounded animal. Rain lashes the windows, but the room is thick with something hotter, heavier. Liam’s free hand moves—not to touch her, but to palm himself through his sweatpants, his groan rough and unfiltered. "Fuck, Harper. Im so hard."

Harper’s fingers stutter against her clit, her breath coming in jagged bursts. She watches—spellbound—as his hand fists the fabric, the outline of him straining against the cotton. "Show me," she breathes, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

Liam’s grip tightens around her wrist, forcing her fingers deeper. His exhale is ragged, uneven. "Say please." The demand scrapes against the charged air between them.

Harper’s thighs twitch. Her breath hitches—sharp, involuntary. The scent of her own arousal mixes with the storm’s damp musk, thick enough to taste. "Please," she gasps, the word cracking halfway. "Please show me your cock "

Liam exhales—slow, deliberate—his fingers loosening around her wrist. His free hand hooks into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging them down just enough to expose the dark thatch of pubic hair.

"Like what you see?" His voice is rough, edged with something darkly amused.

Harper nods—quick, jerky—her lips parted around nothing, her breath shallow. Her fingers twitch against her clit, slick with arousal, but she doesn't stop. Can't. Not now, not when shes this close to seeing the cock her friends have whispered about.

"Do you want me to continue," he teases, fingers tightening around her wrist, forcing her fingers to circle slower now—torturously slow—as his free hand lingers at the waistband of his sweats. Harper nods again, harder this time, her hips jerking involuntarily against her own trapped hand.

"Just—just show me already." She demands, breath ragged as her fingers twitch against her clit—still trapped beneath Liam’s grip. Liam’s smirk is slow, deliberate, his fingers tightening around her wrist as he finally—finally—tugs his sweats lower, revealing the thick, flushed length of his cock, curving slightly upward against his stomach, already glistening at the tip under the flickering blue TV light.

Her throat clicks when she swallows, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Her gaze drops lower, past the sharp jut of Liam's hipbones, past the dark trail of hair leading down. His eight and a half inch cock is thick, flushed deep pink at the tip where a bead of pre-cum glistens. Her breath catches—sharp—her fingers twitching against her clit where they're still pinned beneath his grip.

"Fuck," she exhales, the word punched out of her. Her thighs tremble, slick with her own wetness, the scent of her arousal thick between them. Liam's thumb presses down harder on hers, forcing her fingertip to circle her clit in slow, deliberate strokes.

Liam murmurs, his voice rough, his free hand palming himself slowly. "Do you want to watch me stroke myself while you touch your little pussy?"

Harper's breath races—sharp, involuntary—her fingers twitching against her clit where his grip still guides them. Her gaze locked onto the thick vein running along the top of his cock near the base, the way his foreskin pulls back slightly with each lazy stroke of his hand. "Y-yeah," she breathes, the word cracking halfway.

Liam exhales—slow, deliberate—his thumb pressing down hard on hers, forcing her fingertip to circle her clit in slow, torturous strokes. "Show me your titties," he murmurs, rough-edged, "and I will," he pauses, fingers tightening around her wrist, "let you touch my cock." His free hand strokes himself lazily, pre-cum glistening at the tip under the flickering blue TV light.

Harper exhales—before tugging the hoodie up over her head in one jerky motion, the fabric catching on her elbows before she shakes it off. Her nipples ache beneath the fabric, stiff peaks pressing against the thin cotton of her sports bra. She hesitates—just for a second.

Liam’s fingers tighten around her wrist, guiding her fingers deeper. His free hand strokes himself—slow, deliberate—his thumb smearing pre-cum over the head. His nostrils flare as he exhales, slow and deliberate, his gaze locked onto her bare shoulders, the dip of her collarbones, the way her chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. "Take it off," he murmurs, rough-edged, fingers tightening around her wrist. "All of it."

Harper’s fingers twitch against her clit—still trapped beneath his grip. She hesitates—just a heartbeat—before hooking her thumbs under the elastic, tugging it up, up, until the cool air hits her bare breasts, the stiff peaks of her nipples tightening further. She exhales—sharp—her skin flushing pink under Liam’s gaze.

Liam's gaze drags over the swell of her large breasts—full, heavy, the kind boys in their high school whispered about but never got close enough to touch. His free hand strokes himself faster, pre-cum smearing over his knuckles. "Fuck, Harper," he grits out, his voice ragged. "You’re—" His thumb presses down hard on hers, grinding her fingertip against her clit in a way that makes her back arch off the couch. "You’re tits are fucking perfect."

Liam’s fingers tighten around her wrist, forcing her hand to move faster between her thighs, his other hand working his cock in rough, jerking strokes. "Touch them," he rasps, his pupils blown black. "Pinch those pretty nipples for me."

Harper’s breath stutters—sharp, uneven—as her free hand lifts to her chest. Her fingers brush over her own nipple, the contact electric, and Liam groans, low and guttural. "Yes, just like that," he rasps, his grip tightening around her wrist, forcing her fingers to circle her clit faster. "Pinch it. Harder."

She obeys, her fingers twisting the stiff peak until she gasps, her hips jerking off the couch. The scent between them is heady—musky sweat, the sharp tang of her arousal—and Liam’s nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. His hand on his cock moves faster now, slick with pre-cum, his knuckles white with tension.

The blanket forgotten on the floor, tangled around Harper’s ankles. The storm still rages outside, rattling the windows, but neither of them notices. Liam’s grip on her wrist loosens—just a fraction—but it’s enough for Harper to take control, her fingers moving faster, deeper, the wet sounds obscene. Her other hand pinches her nipple again, her back arching as a shudder wracks her body. "Liam—" she gasps, the name cracking halfway.

Liam watches—eyes dark, lips parted—as his sister’s fingers work her pussy with desperate precision. His own cock throbs in his hand, pre-cum smeared across the head of his cock. He exhales sharply, nostrils flaring at the scent of her—musky, heady, undeniable. "Fuck," he rasps, voice raw. "You look so fucking hot."

Harper’s breath hitches—sharp, uneven—as her fingers circle her clit faster, her hips jerking off the couch. Her other hand twists her nipple again, pinching hard enough to make her gasp.

The wet sound of her pussy echoes through the room—slick, rhythmic, unmistakable—each stroke sending tiny droplets of arousal splattering against her inner thighs. Liam watches—spellbound—as his sister’s fingers disappear between her glistening folds, her pussy clenching hungrily around her digits. The scent—thick, musky—fills the air. Harper’s breath comes in jagged bursts, her hips rocking shamelessly into her own touch, her pink folds stretched taut around her fingers. Her other hand twisting her nipple sharply—hard enough to make her whimper.

Liam’s grip tightens around his cock—pre-cum dripping down his shaft—his thumb smearing the slick fluid over the swollen head. His voice cracks, rough and uneven: "Look into my eyes when you cum." Harper’s gaze snaps to his—wild, unfocused—just as her body locks up, her thighs trembling violently. Her breath catches—a choked, broken sound—before her orgasm slams into her like a freight train. Her pussy pulses—wet, desperate—her fingers still buried deep inside as she cums harder than she ever has, her scream muffled against the back of her hand.

Liam doesn’t blink—doesn’t look away—even as his own cock twitches in his hand, aching with the need to thrust into something warm and tight. Harper’s pupils are blown black, her lips parted around silent gasps, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. The scent of her—musky, primal—fills the room, thick enough to taste. His thumb strokes the underside of his cock—slow, deliberate—his voice dropping to a growl: "Good girl."

His hips jerk—once, twice—before the first thick stripe of cum lands hot across Harper’s left nipple, pearly white against flushed pink skin. She inhales sharply, her fingers still twitching against her clit, her thighs trembling as another orgasm ripples through her. Liam groans—low and guttural—his cock pulsing in his grip as he paints her tits in uneven streaks, his cum dripping down the slope of her breast toward her sternum.

"Fuck," Harper breathes, her voice wrecked, her free hand hovering over the mess. She hesitates—just for a second—before dragging a fingertip through the sticky warmth, her skin tingling where his cum cools in the air. Liam watches, his breath ragged, his cock still twitching in his hand. His gaze locks onto the way her fingers smear his cum across her nipple, her touch feather-light, almost reverent.

The TV flickers—some late-night infomercial now—casting eerie blue shadows across their sweat-slicked skin. Harper exhales sharply, her fingers still pressed against her clit, her thighs trembling. The scent between them is thick—salty, musky—and Liam inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring.

His cum glistens on her chest, pearly streaks catching the dim light. Harper’s tongue darts out, wetting her lips, her gaze locked onto his cock—still hard, still dripping.

The sudden crunch of tires on gravel cuts through the heavy silence. Liam’s head snaps toward the window, his body tensing. Harper freezes, her fingers still slick with his release. The sound grows louder—closer—until the headlights slice through the blinds, painting jagged stripes across their tangled limbs.

"Fuck, it's mom." Liam's voice cuts through the humid air like a blade, his cock still half-hard in his hand. Harper's breath hitches—her fingers slick with cum and arousal—as the headlights swing across the living room wall, painting their tangled bodies in stark, guilty relief. The engine shuts off. A car door creaks open.

Harper moves before she thinks—bolting off the couch, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood as she snatches her hoodie off the floor. Liam jerks his sweats up just as the key turns in the front door lock, his breath ragged, his pulse hammering in his throat. Harper doesn't look back—just sprints up the stairs two at a time, her thighs sticky with sweat and Liam's release.

The door creaks open downstairs, followed by the shuffle of grocery bags and their mother's exhausted sigh. "Liam? Harper?" Her voice carries up the stairwell, thin with fatigue. Liam exhales sharply through his nose, wiping his palm on the couch cushion before standing—too quickly, his dick still half-hard and aching. The blanket lies crumpled on the floor, damp with Harper's wetness. He kicks it under the coffee table just as their mom rounds the corner.

Upstairs, Harper slams her bedroom door shut with her hip, her breath ragged. Her fingers—still slick with Liam's cum—fumble for the lock. It clicks. She presses her forehead against the cool wood, her pulse hammering in her throat. The scent of him clings to her skin, musk and salt and something darker. Her hoodie hangs open, the mess on her chest glistening under the dim glow of her fairy lights.

She peels the fabric off with shaky hands, tossing it into the laundry hamper where it lands with a wet splat. The nightshirt she grabs is oversized—one of those band tees Liam left in her room after a bonfire last summer—and it smells faintly of smoke and his cologne. Harper tugs it over her head in one jerky motion, the cotton swallowing her frame whole. The fabric brushes against her sticky nipples, making her shudder.

Downstairs, muffled voices rise and fall—Mom’s tired monotone, Liam’s too-casual laugh. A refrigerator door slams. Ice clinks. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds.

Harper presses her ear to the door, listening. Normal. Everything’s normal.