Bloodbound

The first time I understood what I felt for my brother, I was thirteen and he was fourteen and he'd just punched a hole through his bedroom wall.

I remember the sound more than anything. The drywall giving way, that hollow crack, then the wet silence after. I stood in the hallway with my back pressed against the wall, listening to him breathe on the other side of the door. Heavy. Ragged. Like something dying.

Our father had been screaming at him for twenty minutes before that. About grades. About attitude. About the way Rafe walked around the house like he was already defeated. Ward Cameron didn't tolerate defeat. He tolerated nothing, really, except the version of his son he'd built in his head. Rafe had never been that son. Not once. Not ever.

I should've walked away. That's what a normal sister would've done. Gone back to my room, put in my earbuds, pretended I couldn't hear. But I didn't. I stayed. I pressed my palm flat against his door and felt the vibration of him moving around inside, and something in my chest cracked open like an egg.

I wanted to fix him.

Not in the way you fix a broken lamp or a flat tire. In the way you fix something that's yours. Something that belongs to you so completely that its pain is your pain, its damage is your damage. I wanted to crawl inside his skin and stitch him up from the inside out.

That was the first time. I'm twenty now, and I've had seven years to think about what that feeling meant. Seven years to pick it apart, examine it under fluorescent light, try to name it something other than what it is.

I've failed.

Because what it is, what it's always been, is this: Rafe is mine. He's been mine since before I understood what ownership meant. And I will do whatever it takes to keep him.

---

The house was too quiet when I got home from school that afternoon. That should've been my first warning. The Cameron house was never quiet. It was a sprawling colonial nightmare with too many rooms and too many memories, and normally you could hear something. The TV from the den. Our father on a phone call in his office. Rose's heels clicking across the kitchen tile as she pretended to be busy.

But that day, nothing. Just the hum of the air conditioning and the distant crash of waves against the dock.

I dropped my bag by the door and walked through the foyer, my footsteps echoing off the marble. The house felt abandoned. Like something had happened here and everyone had fled. I checked the kitchen first. Empty. The den. Empty. The pool deck, where Rose usually held court with her wine and her phone and her performative motherhood.

Empty.

I found him in the boathouse.

Rafe was sitting on the edge of the dock with his feet dangling over the water, a bottle of something amber-colored dangling from his fingers. His shoulders were hunched forward, his spine curved like a question mark. He didn't turn when I walked up behind him. Didn't acknowledge me at all. Just kept staring at the water like it held answers to questions he hadn't figured out how to ask yet.

"You look like shit," I said.

He laughed. It was a hollow sound, scraped out of his throat. "Thanks, Sarah. Really feeling the love."

I sat down next to him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. The wood was warm from the afternoon sun. I could smell the whiskey on him, sharp and sweet, mixing with the salt air. He'd been drinking for a while. His eyes were glassy, his jaw slack in a way it never was when he was sober.

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

"Figured out," he said.

"Figured out what?"

"Figured out that I'm a fuck-up. Figured out that I'm not worth the effort." He took a long pull from the bottle. "Dad took Wheezie to the mainland. Some school thing. Rose went with them because she can't stand to be in the same room as me for more than five minutes."

"And you stayed here to drink alone?"

"Got a problem with that?"

I didn't answer. I just watched him. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his fingers tightened around the bottle like it might try to escape. The way his eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, refusing to look at me.

I wanted to touch him. Not sexually. Not then. I just wanted to put my hand on his back and feel him breathe. I wanted to remind him that he existed, that he was real, that someone in this godforsaken family actually gave a shit whether he lived or died.

But I didn't. Because I knew he'd flinch. He always flinched when I got too close. Not because he hated me. Because he didn't know what to do with tenderness. It wasn't a language he spoke.

"You're not a fuck-up," I said instead.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't lie to me. I can't take it today."

I turned to face him fully, tucking my legs under me on the dock. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would've been beautiful if everything didn't feel so goddamn heavy. "I'm not lying. You're not a fuck-up. You're just... lost."

That made him look at me. Finally. His blue eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, and there was something in them that made my chest ache. Something raw. Something that looked a lot like surrender.

"Lost," he repeated. "That's a nice way of putting it."

"It's the truth."

"The truth is that I'm a disappointment. The truth is that I've been a disappointment since the day I was born. The truth is that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it's never going to be enough for him."

He wasn't talking about Ward anymore. Not really. He was talking about himself. About the voice in his head that sounded like our father, that told him he was worthless, that he'd never amount to anything, that he was broken in ways that couldn't be fixed.

I knew that voice. I heard it too, sometimes. But mine sounded different. Mine sounded like my own voice, telling me that the thing I wanted most in the world was the one thing I could never have.

"Fuck him," I said.

Rafe blinked. "What?"

"Fuck him. Fuck Dad. Fuck all of them. You don't need their approval. You don't need anyone's approval."

"Easy for you to say. You're the golden child. You're the one who does everything right."

I laughed, and it came out bitter. "You think I do everything right? You think I'm happy?"

"Aren't you?"

"No."

The word hung between us, heavy and honest. I watched his face shift, watched the confusion settle into something else. Something that looked almost like curiosity. Like he was seeing me for the first time in years.

"Then what's wrong with you?" he asked.

I couldn't tell him. Not then. Not ever, probably. But for a second, I wanted to. I wanted to open my mouth and let it all spill out. I wanted to tell him that the thing wrong with me was him. That every sleepless night, every racing thought, every desperate prayer was about him. That I'd been in love with him since I was thirteen years old, and it was killing me, and I didn't know how to stop.

But I didn't. I just shrugged and said, "Same as you. I'm just better at hiding it."

He looked at me for a long time. Then he held out the bottle.

I took it.

The whiskey burned going down, but I liked it. I liked the way it warmed my chest, the way it made everything feel a little softer around the edges. I took another sip and handed it back.

We sat there in silence as the sun sank lower, the sky bleeding into purple and gray. The water lapped against the dock, gentle and rhythmic. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn sounded. The world kept moving, kept spinning, kept doing all the things it was supposed to do. But here, on this dock, time felt suspended. Like we were caught in amber. Like nothing existed except the two of us and the space between us.

"Sarah," Rafe said eventually.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

I turned to look at him. His eyes were still glassy, still red, but there was something else there now. Something that looked almost like gratitude. Like relief.

"For what?"

"For staying."

I swallowed hard. "I'll always stay."

He didn't respond. Just nodded and took another drink. But I saw the way his shoulders relaxed, just a little. The way his jaw unclenched. The way his breathing slowed.

I'd done that. I'd made him feel better. I'd made him feel seen.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was something. A crack in the wall. A door left slightly ajar.

I could work with that.

---

The weeks that followed were a study in restraint.

I watched him. That was the first thing. I watched him at breakfast, at dinner, in the hallways between classes. I watched the way he moved through the world like it was a minefield, careful and tense and always waiting for something to explode. I watched the way he drank too much and slept too little and smiled only when he was supposed to. I watched him fall apart in slow motion and pretend he wasn't.

The second thing was this: I made myself indispensable.

It started small. A cup of coffee waiting for him on the kitchen counter when he stumbled downstairs in the morning. A text message checking in when he disappeared for hours without explanation. A quiet presence in the doorway of his room when he couldn't sleep, just sitting there, not saying anything, letting him know he wasn't alone.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. At first he was suspicious. Rafe didn't trust kindness. He'd learned too young that people only gave you things when they wanted something in return. So when I started showing up, started being there, he looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve.

"What's your angle?" he asked one night, about two weeks in. We were on the back porch, and he was smoking a cigarette, and I was pretending not to watch the way his lips wrapped around it.

"No angle," I said.

"Bullshit. Everyone has an angle."

"Not me."

He laughed, but it wasn't a mean laugh. It was tired. "You're weird, you know that?"

"I've been told."

"I mean it. You're weird. You're not like the other girls."

I raised an eyebrow. "What other girls?"

"You know. The ones who hang around. The ones who want something from me."

"And what do they want?"

He shrugged. "My name. My money. My dad's connections. Take your pick."

"And what do you think I want?"

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I felt it like a physical touch. His eyes on my face, my neck, my hands. Searching for something. Trying to figure me out.

"I don't know," he said finally. "That's what's freaking me out."

I smiled. Just a little. Just enough. "Maybe I just want to be your sister."

"You've never wanted to be my sister."

The words hit harder than they should have. Because he was right. I'd never wanted to be his sister. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. But he didn't know that. He couldn't know that. Not yet.

"I want to be your friend," I said instead. "Is that so hard to believe?"

He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, flicking the butt into the yard. "Yeah. Actually. It is."

"Why?"

"Because no one's ever wanted to be my friend without wanting something else."

I stood up. Walked over to him. Stood close enough that I could smell the smoke on his breath, the soap on his skin. Close enough that if I leaned forward just an inch, I could press my face into his chest.

"Then let me be the first," I said.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stood there, looking down at me with those blue eyes that held so much pain it made my teeth ache.

"Sarah," he said. A warning. A question. A plea.

"Rafe," I said back.

And then I stepped away. Walked inside. Left him standing there on the porch, staring after me.

That was the first move. The first real move. And I knew, even then, that it wouldn't be the last.

---

The thing about loving someone who doesn't love you back is that it turns you into a detective.

You learn to read them. Every gesture, every expression, every shift in tone. You catalog their moods, their habits, their tells. You become an expert in the language of their body, the grammar of their silences. You know when they're lying. You know when they're hurting. You know when they're thinking about you, even if they'd never admit it.

I knew Rafe better than he knew himself. I knew that he drank because it was the only thing that made the noise stop. I knew that he lashed out because he was terrified of being vulnerable. I knew that he pushed people away because he was convinced they'd leave eventually, so he might as well get it over with.

I knew that he was lonely. Desperately, achingly lonely. Even when he was surrounded by people, even when he was the center of attention, even when he was charming and funny and everything our father wanted him to be. He was alone in a way that had nothing to do with company.

And I knew that I could fill that loneliness. If he let me. If I was patient. If I played my cards right.

So I waited.

I waited through the summer, through the long hot days and the sticky nights. I waited through the parties he threw when our parents were away, the ones where he'd disappear into a cloud of smoke and come back with dilated pupils and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. I waited through the fights with our father, the ones that left him shaking and silent and so full of rage I could feel it radiating off him like heat.

I waited, and I watched, and I planned.

It wasn't manipulation. Not exactly. It was more like... cultivation. Like tending a garden. You plant seeds, you water them, you give them sunlight. You don't force them to grow. You just create the conditions.

The conditions were these: I was always there. I was always kind. I never asked for anything in return.

And slowly, slowly, he started to trust me.

It happened in increments. A shared look across the dinner table. A text message at two in the morning, just to say he couldn't sleep. A confession, whispered in the dark, about the things he saw when he closed his eyes.

"I dream about drowning," he told me one night. We were in his room, sitting on the floor with our backs against his bed, and the only light was from the moon coming through the window. "Every night. I'm underwater, and I can't breathe, and I'm reaching for the surface, but it keeps getting further away."

I didn't say anything. Just listened.

"And the worst part is," he continued, "sometimes I don't want to reach the surface. Sometimes I just want to let go. Let it take me."

My heart clenched. "Rafe."

"I know. I know. It's fucked up."

"It's not fucked up. It's just... sad."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah. Sad. That's me. Sad Rafe. The fuck-up who can't even kill himself right."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

I turned to face him, grabbing his hand before I could think better of it. His skin was warm, his fingers long and thin. He flinched, but he didn't pull away.

"Because I need you," I said. "Okay? I need you here. With me."

He stared at me. His eyes were wide, vulnerable in a way I'd never seen before. "Why?"

"Because you're my brother. Because you're the only person in this family who's ever understood me. Because if you leave, I don't know what I'd do."

It was the truth. Not all of it. But enough.

He squeezed my hand. Just once. Just a little. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

I didn't believe him. I knew better than to believe him. But I smiled anyway, and I leaned my head against his shoulder, and I let myself pretend.

---

The party was in August.

Some friend of Rafe's, someone from the country club, someone whose name I never bothered to learn. The house was on the water, a massive thing with floor-to-ceiling windows and a pool that glowed neon blue in the darkness. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and perfume and something sweet I couldn't identify.

I didn't want to go. I never wanted to go to these things. But Rafe had asked me, and I couldn't say no to him. Not when he looked at me with those eyes, the ones that made me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered.

So I went. I put on a dress that was too short and heels that were too high, and I stood in the corner with a drink I didn't want to drink, and I watched him.

He was in his element. That was the thing about Rafe. He could be charming when he wanted to be. He could turn it on like a switch, the smile, the laugh, the easy confidence. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, shaking hands, slapping backs, telling jokes that made people laugh. He looked happy. He looked like he was having the time of his life.

I knew better.

I knew that the smile was fake. I knew that the laugh was hollow. I knew that he was counting the minutes until he could escape, until he could find a quiet corner and a bottle and disappear into himself.

I watched him talk to a girl. A blonde. Pretty. The kind of girl who probably went to private school and had a father with a yacht. She was touching his arm, laughing at something he said, leaning into him in a way that made my stomach twist.

I set down my drink. Walked outside. Found a spot by the pool where I could be alone.

The water was still. Reflective. I stared at my own face in the surface, distorted by the ripples, and I tried to breathe.

It's fine, I told myself. He's allowed to talk to other girls. He's allowed to flirt. He's not yours. Not yet.

But he would be. He had to be. Because the alternative was unthinkable.

I don't know how long I stood there. Long enough for the music to change, for the crowd to shift, for the night to deepen. Long enough for my feet to ache and my head to pound and my heart to feel like it was being squeezed in a fist.

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

"Thought I'd find you out here."

Rafe. His voice was slurred, his movements unsteady. He dropped down onto the edge of the pool, his legs dangling over the water, and patted the space beside him.

I sat.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I should be asking you that."

He shrugged. "I'm fine. Always fine."

"You're drunk."

"So are you."

"I've had one drink."

"Lightweight."

I laughed despite myself. He grinned, and for a second, he looked like the boy I remembered. The one who used to chase me around the yard. The one who used to read me bedtime stories when I couldn't sleep. The one who was just my brother, before everything got complicated.

"I saw you talking to that girl," I said.

"What girl?"

"The blonde. In the red dress."

"Oh. Jessica." He waved a hand dismissively. "She's nobody."

"She seemed like somebody."

"She's a distraction. That's all."

"A distraction from what?"

He didn't answer. Just stared at the water, his jaw tight, his hands clenched on his knees.

"Rafe."

"What?"

"You can tell me. Whatever it is. You can tell me."

He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "I don't know how to be happy."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest.

"I don't know how to be happy," he repeated. "I don't know how to feel anything except... this. This weight. This darkness. It's always there, Sarah. Every minute of every day. And I'm so tired. I'm so fucking tired of pretending."

I reached out. Took his hand. He didn't flinch this time.

"You don't have to pretend with me," I said.

"I know."

"I mean it. You can be yourself. The real you. The one who's hurting. The one who's scared. I want to know him."

He turned to look at me. His eyes were wet, glistening in the moonlight. "Why?"

"Because I love you."

The words came out before I could stop them. Before I could think. Before I could remember all the reasons I wasn't supposed to say them.

He froze. His whole body went still. "What?"

"I love you," I said again. "I've always loved you. You're my brother, and I love you, and I can't stand watching you destroy yourself."

It wasn't what I meant. Not exactly. But it was close enough. Close enough to be true. Close enough to be safe.

He exhaled. A long, shaky breath. "I love you too."

Not the way I wanted him to. Not the way I needed him to. But it was something. A start.

I leaned into him. Pressed my face against his shoulder. Breathed him in. Smoke and whiskey and something underneath that was just him. Just Rafe.

"I'm going to help you," I whispered. "I'm going to fix you. I promise."

He didn't respond. Just wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer. And we sat there, on the edge of the pool, while the party raged on behind us and the stars watched from above.

I felt his heartbeat against my cheek. Steady. Strong. Alive.

Mine.

---

The days after that were different.

He looked at me differently. Touched me differently. Nothing overt. Nothing that anyone else would notice. But I noticed. I noticed the way his hand lingered on my shoulder when he walked past. The way his eyes followed me across the room. The way he found excuses to be near me, to talk to me, to be alone with me.

He was starting to need me. The way I needed him.

It wasn't love. Not yet. It was something else. Dependence. Trust. The slow, inevitable pull of gravity.

But it would be love. I'd make sure of it.

I started small. A brush of my fingers against his when I handed him something. A hug that lasted a second too long. A look that held his gaze just past the point of comfort.

He noticed. He always noticed. But he didn't pull away. He didn't tell me to stop. He just... watched. Waited. Like he was trying to figure out what game I was playing.

I wasn't playing a game. Not really. I was just... showing him. Showing him what he could have. What he could feel. What it would be like to be loved by someone who saw him, truly saw him, and wanted him anyway.

The first time I touched him deliberately, it was his face.

We were in the kitchen. Late. Everyone else was asleep. He was sitting at the counter, staring at a glass of water like it held the secrets to the universe, and I walked up behind him and put my hand on his cheek.

He jumped. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"You're touching my face."

"I know."

"Why?"

I didn't answer. Just traced my thumb along his jawline, feeling the stubble, the warmth, the pulse beneath his skin. He was so beautiful. So broken. So perfect.

"Sarah."

"Shh."

I leaned in. Close. So close I could feel his breath on my lips. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stared at me with those blue eyes, wide and confused and something else. Something that looked almost like fear.

"I'm going to kiss you," I said.

"Sarah, don't."

"Why not?"

"Because you're my sister."

"So?"

"So it's wrong."

"Wrong for who?"

He didn't have an answer for that.

I closed the distance. Pressed my lips to his. Soft. Gentle. A question, not a demand.

He didn't kiss me back. But he didn't push me away either. He just sat there, frozen, while I moved my mouth against his, while I breathed him in, while I felt the world shift beneath my feet.

When I pulled back, his eyes were wet.

"Why did you do that?" he whispered.

"Because I wanted to."

"You can't. We can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not... because we're..."

"We're what? Family?" I laughed. It came out bitter. "Family doesn't mean anything, Rafe. Not in this house. Not to these people. We're just two people who happen to share DNA. That's all."

"That's not all."

"It is. It can be. If you let it."

He shook his head. Stood up. Backed away. "I can't do this. I can't be this."

"Be what?"

"Whatever you want me to be."

"You don't even know what I want."

"I know it's not this. I know it's not... normal."

"Normal is overrated."

He stared at me. His chest was heaving. His hands were shaking. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether to jump.

"Sarah," he said. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please don't do this to me."

"Do what?"

"Make me feel things I'm not supposed to feel."

I stepped closer. He stepped back. I stepped closer again.

"I can't help it," I said. "I can't help the way I feel. And I don't think you can either."

"I don't feel anything."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You are. I can see it. I've always been able to see it. You look at me like I'm the only thing in the world that makes sense to you."

He didn't deny it. He just stood there, breathing hard, looking at me like I was both his salvation and his destruction.

"I need you," I said. "And I think you need me too. Maybe more than you know."

He closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek. "I can't."

"You can."

"I won't."

"You will."

And then I walked away. Left him standing in the kitchen, alone with his thoughts and his fears and his desire. Left him to think about what I'd said. What I'd done. What I'd offered.

He'd come around. They always did.

---

The next few days were hell.

He avoided me. Actively, deliberately avoided me. Left rooms when I entered them. Didn't answer my texts. Didn't look at me at dinner. It was like I'd become invisible. Like I'd ceased to exist.

I told myself it was fine. I told myself he just needed time. I told myself that resistance was natural, that it didn't mean no, that it just meant not yet.

But the not-yet stretched into a week. Then two. And I started to panic.

What if I'd pushed too hard? What if I'd broken something that couldn't be fixed? What if he hated me now, truly hated me, and I'd lost him forever?

I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't think about anything except him. The way he'd looked at me. The way he'd kissed me back, just for a second, before he pulled away. The way his voice had cracked when he said my name.

I'd felt it. I knew I had. He wanted me. He just didn't know how to want me.

So I waited. And I watched. And I planned.

And then, one night, he came to me.

I was in my room, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet. Everyone was asleep. I'd given up on sleep hours ago. Given up on everything.

Then the door opened.

He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the hallway. His hair was messy. His eyes were red. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

I sat up. "Yeah."

He closed the door behind him. Walked over to the bed. Sat down on the edge, not quite looking at me.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"About what?"

"About what you said. About what you did."

"And?"

"And I don't know what to do with it."

I waited. Let him find the words.

"I've never felt this way before," he said. "Not about anyone. Not like this. And it scares me. It scares me because I don't understand it. Because I don't know if it's real. Because I don't know if I'm just... broken. Or if you're just... something I need that I shouldn't."

I reached out. Touched his hand. He didn't pull away.

"It's real," I said. "What you feel. It's real."

"How do you know?"

"Because I feel it too."

He looked at me then. Really looked at me. And I saw it. The thing I'd been waiting for. The thing I'd been dreaming about. The thing I'd been willing to burn the world down for.

Want.

Raw and desperate and terrified. But want.

"I don't know how to do this," he whispered.

"Then let me show you."

I leaned in. Kissed him again. And this time, he kissed me back.

It was hesitant at first. Uncertain. His lips moved against mine like he was learning a new language, like he was afraid of getting it wrong. But then something shifted. Something broke open. And he was kissing me like he was drowning, like I was air, like I was the only thing keeping him alive.

We fell back onto the bed. His weight on top of me. His hands in my hair. His mouth on my neck. I arched into him, pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing him inside my skin.

"Sarah," he breathed. "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah."

"I'm here," I said. "I'm yours."

He pulled back. Looked down at me. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving, his whole body trembling.

"I can't," he said. "I can't do this."

"You can."

"We're siblings."

"I don't care."

"I care."

"You don't. You just think you're supposed to."

He closed his eyes. Pressed his forehead to mine. "This is wrong."

"Maybe. But it feels right. Doesn't it?"

He didn't answer. But he didn't move away either.

"Tell me it doesn't feel right," I said. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't want me. And I'll stop. I'll leave you alone. I'll never touch you again."

Silence.

"Tell me, Rafe."

He opened his eyes. Looked at me. And I saw the war in him. The part that wanted to run. The part that wanted to stay. The part that was terrified. The part that was desperate.

"I can't," he whispered.

"Can't what?"

"Can't tell you that. Because it would be a lie."

I smiled. Reached up. Touched his face. "Then don't."

He kissed me again. Softer this time. Sadder. Like he was saying goodbye to something. Like he was giving in to something he'd been fighting for years.

And I held him. And I let him. And I felt the world shift beneath us, the ground giving way, the future opening up like a flower.

He was mine now. He just didn't know it yet.

---

We didn't have sex that night. He wasn't ready. I could feel it in the way he held back, the way he stopped himself every time things went too far. But that was okay. I could wait. I'd waited seven years. I could wait a little longer.

What mattered was that he'd stopped fighting. He'd stopped pretending. He'd admitted, in his own way, that he wanted me. That he needed me. That I was something more than a sister to him.

The rest would come. I knew it would. I could feel it in the way he looked at me now. The way he touched me. The way he found excuses to be near me, to talk to me, to be alone with me.

He was falling. And I was there to catch him.

The days after that were a blur. A beautiful, terrible blur. We spent every moment we could together, stealing hours in his room, in my room, in the boathouse, anywhere we could be alone. We talked. We touched. We kissed. We didn't go further, not yet, but we got close. So close.

And all the while, I watched him change. The darkness in him didn't disappear. It never would. But it softened. It receded. It made room for something else. Something that looked almost like hope.

I was doing that. I was saving him. I was making him better.

And in the process, I was making him mine.

The first time he told me he loved me, we were in the boathouse. It was late. The moon was full. He was holding my hand, tracing patterns on my palm, and he looked up at me with those blue eyes and said, "I love you."

Not the way he'd said it before. Not brotherly. Not safe.

The way I'd always wanted him to say it.

"I love you," he said again. "And I know it's wrong. And I know I shouldn't. But I do. I love you, Sarah. I've always loved you. I just didn't know how to admit it."

I kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Like I was trying to crawl inside him.

"I love you too," I said. "I've always loved you. You're everything to me. You're the only thing that matters."

He pulled back. Looked at me. "What are we going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"About this. About us. We can't... we can't just..."

"We can do whatever we want."

"No, we can't. We're siblings. People will find out. People will..."

"People don't matter."

"They do. They matter a lot."

"Not to me. Not to us."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I'm scared."

"I know."

"What if I hurt you?"

"You won't."

"What if I can't be what you need?"

"You already are."

He didn't look convinced. But he didn't argue. Just leaned into me, resting his head on my shoulder, letting me hold him.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"You deserve everything."

"I'm broken."

"So am I."

"But you're good. You're... you're light. And I'm just... darkness."

I pulled back. Looked him in the eye. "You're not darkness. You're just lost. And I'm going to help you find your way."

"How?"

"By loving you. By never leaving. By being here, every day, no matter what."

He stared at me. His eyes were wet. His lips were trembling. "Promise?"

"Promise."

He kissed me. And I felt it. The shift. The surrender. The moment he stopped fighting and started falling.

He was mine. Truly mine. And I would never let him go.

---

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking I'm a monster. You're thinking I'm sick. You're thinking that what I did, what I'm doing, is wrong. And maybe you're right. Maybe I am all those things. Maybe this is the most twisted, fucked-up thing a person can do.

But you don't understand.

You don't understand what it's like to love someone so much that it consumes you. To need someone so desperately that you'd burn the world down just to keep them warm. To want someone so completely that nothing else matters. Not morality. Not consequences. Not even your own sanity.

Rafe is mine. He's been mine since before I understood what that meant. And I will do whatever it takes to keep him. Whatever it takes to make him happy. Whatever it takes to save him from himself.

Even if it destroys me.

Even if it destroys him.

He's mine. And I'm never letting go.

The story's not over. It's just beginning. And I don't know how it ends. I don't know if we'll survive this. I don't know if we'll come out the other side whole.

But I know this: I'll never stop fighting for him. I'll never stop loving him. I'll never stop trying to make him see that he's worth something. That he's worth everything.

Even if he never sees it.

Even if he never believes it.

Even if he hates me for it.

He's mine. And that's all that matters.

That's all that's ever mattered.

And I'll prove it to him. I'll prove it to the world. I'll prove it to anyone who tries to come between us.

Rafe Cameron is mine.

And I will never, ever let him go.