Content Warning: This chapter includes forced intimacy, lack of consent, and psychological trauma. Some scenes may be upsetting or triggering.
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The sunset looked raw and angry, like something torn open across the sky.
It bled through the high clouds and spilled in past the white curtains, drenching the bed in a heavy, uneven red that made the room feel smaller, hotter, less safe. The air smelled clean in that sterile, deliberate way rooms do right before innocence ends for good.
Noah couldn't see any of it. The blindfold pressed tight against his eyelids, reducing the world to nothing but darkness, sound, and the unbearable honesty of touch. His breathing came uneven and shallow, stretched thin by panic, by pain, by the sick certainty that a line had already been crossed and there was no way back across it.
"Evelyn…?" His voice cracked, small and raw. "Sis?"
The word slipped out on pure reflex, the same one he'd used his whole life to make things feel safe again. It didn't work this time.
"I'm sorry," she said, so close he felt the words vibrate through his bones. "Noah, I'm so sorry."
He flinched — not because he chose to, but because his body had no choice. Every nerve was screaming, raw and overloaded. The blindfold stripped away distance, made every sound sharper, every breath louder, every shift of weight on the mattress more immediate. He could hear the tiny catch in her throat, the tremor she tried — and failed — to hide.
He could hear how hard she was trying to convince herself this was still okay.
"I didn't mean for it to get this far," she whispered, then softer, almost to herself, "but I couldn't stop."
Noah's throat closed. Words felt distant, unreal, like they belonged to someone else.
Evelyn didn't sound like the sister who'd grown up with him, the girl his parents had brought home and folded into their family, the one who'd fixed his hair before school pictures and threatened anyone who looked at him wrong. This Evelyn was older, stranger, carved hollow by something that had been starving inside her for too long.
And she was making a choice he had never been allowed to help decide.
The last of the red light dragged itself slowly across her skin. When she moved, the mattress dipped and creaked under them — a small, ordinary sound that felt obscene in this moment, too domestic, too close.
He wanted to rip the blindfold off. He wanted to run. He wanted to hear his mother call his name from the hallway the way she always did when dinner was ready, when everything was still normal and clean and predictable.
Evelyn's hand settled on his chest.
Not gentle, not rough — just there, solid and heavy, as if she needed the steady rise and fall of his breathing to prove he was still real.
Her fingers traced across his skin with deliberate, unhurried care — not wandering aimlessly, but writing something slow and certain. Each light stroke felt like an invisible inscription, a quiet claim pressed into him with the same measured precision she always used, as if she could carve her name somewhere deep beneath the surface where he couldn't erase it, even if he tried.
The touch was cool at first, then warmed quickly against his skin, leaving faint trails that tingled and burned long after her fingertips had moved on. She didn't rush, didn't tease for the sake of it; every pass was intentional, almost reverent in its restraint, turning a simple caress into something possessive and final.
Noah's breath caught hard in his chest, and for one terrible second his body betrayed him — reacting in ways he couldn't process fast enough to hate. That betrayal twisted fear into something darker, heavier. Shame arrived right after, the way it always did, thick and suffocating, curling tight in his chest until he could barely draw air.
Evelyn made a small, broken sound, like something inside her had been stabbed where no one could reach.
Then she leaned down until her mouth was near his ear, her voice dropping into something dangerously tender, almost pleading.
"Don't move," she said. "Don't take it off. Please. Just this once, listen to me."
He nodded because he didn't know what else to do. Because saying no felt impossible. Because he had spent his whole life learning to trust her, and that training didn't disappear just because the world had turned ugly.
Time slipped and blurred.
The room moved between heat and stillness, between her uneven breath and his hammering pulse, between moments that should never have existed and the brutal fact that they did. Noah's body shook in small, uncontrollable waves, and Evelyn's voice kept coming back, circling the same broken phrase over and over, as if saying it enough times might somehow wash the stain away.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry."
When it was over, the silence was worse than any of the sounds that had come before.
Evelyn stayed still for a long moment, as if she couldn't trust her own legs to hold her, as if moving would shatter whatever was left of her. Noah lay under the blanket she eventually pulled over him, blindfold still in place, heart slamming hard enough to ache behind his ribs.
He heard her shift away. Heard the soft tear of tissue being pulled from a box. The rustle of careful wiping. The small, efficient sounds of someone trying to erase what couldn't be erased.
"Don't look," she said, the words almost gentle, almost sisterly again, and that nearly broke him completely. "Not yet."
He didn't move. He didn't lift his hands. He stayed perfectly still, like a child pretending the nightmare would leave if he just stayed quiet long enough.
A trash can lid clicked shut. Something wet crumpled inside. The air shifted, thickened with the sour aftermath of something irreversible.
Then the quiet sounds of fabric: a bra clasp snapping closed, a T-shirt dragged over her head, jeans zipped and buttoned. Every motion was a reminder that she was putting herself back together piece by piece, while he remained frozen in the wreckage.
She came close again, the mattress dipping under her weight, her hair brushing his arm like a ghost of what used to be normal.
"Go to sleep," Evelyn whispered. "When you wake up… we're going to act like it never happened."
Noah swallowed, throat burning.
"I'm sorry," she added, voice cracking now, as if the apology had finally grown teeth. "I was selfish. I was… sick. I don't know what's wrong with me."
He couldn't answer. He couldn't even find enough air to try.
Her hand hovered near his cheek, hesitated, then pulled back, as though she no longer had the right to touch him gently.
"Goodnight," she said.
The door closed with a soft, careful click.
Laura came home late.
Her day had been long enough to make her shoulders drop the moment she stepped inside. She let her purse fall onto the couch, kicked her shoes off by the door, and called out without thinking.
"Noah? You home?"
Silence.
She frowned and tried again, louder. "Noah?"
Nothing answered except the low hum of the refrigerator and the steady whisper of the air conditioning.
She checked his room first. Empty bed. No backpack on the floor. No phone screen glowing. That quick, familiar spike of parental worry rose sharp in her chest.
Then she noticed Evelyn's door was cracked open.
Laura paused for half a second. Evelyn's room had always felt more private, more adult — the way an older sibling's space does. But Evelyn had left that morning for her new place, and Laura was still adjusting to the quieter house.
She pushed the door wider.
Noah was asleep on the bed, curled under a blanket as if someone had carefully tucked him in.
Relief flooded through her so fast it left her lightheaded.
"There you are," she muttered, half amused, half exasperated. She crossed the room and gently shook his shoulder. "Noah. Hey. Wake up."
He startled awake too quickly, like he'd been running in his dreams. His eyes snapped open before his mind caught up. Confusion flickered across his face, raw and unguarded. For a heartbeat he looked like he didn't recognize the room.
Then his gaze darted around, searching for something he was terrified to see.
"Mom?" he said, voice hoarse and small.
Laura smiled, trying to keep it light. "Yeah, it's me. What are you doing in your sister's bed? Missing her already or what?"
Noah's lips parted, then closed again. His hand twitched at his side, then went still, as though he was forcing himself not to reach up, not to touch his own face, not to confirm anything.
"Sis," he said quietly. "Where is Evelyn?"
Laura exhaled. "Honey, you forgot? Today was her move-in day. She left early, remember? She should be on the train right now."
Noah stared at the wall like he could see through it to something else.
Laura tilted her head. "Are you okay? You look… out of it."
He blinked a few times and pulled something like a normal expression onto his face. It didn't fit quite right.
"I'm fine," he said. "I just… fell asleep."
Laura softened. She reached up and smoothed his hair the way she used to when he was small. "You and Evelyn have always been so close. I know you're going to miss her, but you'll be okay. Want to call her?"
Noah hesitated.
Then he nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
Laura pulled out her phone, found Evelyn's number, and handed it over like she was passing him a piece of comfort.
Noah held it with both hands, as if it might burn him.
It rang.
When she answered, her voice was different — not the warm, teasing tone she used with him, not the easy older-sister rhythm that had once made him feel safe.
"Yeah?" Evelyn said.
Noah swallowed. "Hey. Are you on the train?"
"I am."
A beat.
"What's wrong?" she asked, clipped and controlled, as if she didn't trust herself to sound softer.
Noah stared at the carpet. His mouth filled with questions he couldn't ask with his mother standing there, smiling, oblivious.
Where are you going, really?
Why did you do that?
Do you hate me now?
Do you expect me to forgive you?
"Are you far?" he managed instead. "Are you going to be late?"
"Tomorrow morning," Evelyn said. "I'll be there on time."
Noah's fingers tightened around the phone.
"Okay," he said. "Just… be safe."
There was a long pause on the line, long enough that Laura's smile faltered a little, as if she sensed the strangeness without understanding why.
Evelyn's voice came back quieter, almost strained. "You too."
The call ended.
Noah handed the phone back.
Laura studied him for a moment, that mother instinct sharpening again. "You sure you're okay?"
Noah forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to him. "Yeah. I'm just tired."
Laura didn't push. She rarely did when she thought it was just teenage moodiness. She squeezed his cheek lightly.
"You should work hard," she said, cheerful again. "If you get into the same school as Evelyn, you'll both be close. Wouldn't that be nice?"
Noah nodded automatically. "Yeah. I will."
He knew exactly what he was doing, even if he couldn't say it out loud.
He was choosing silence.
He was choosing the kind of silence that kept a family from breaking apart on the surface. He didn't understand why Evelyn had done what she did, but he understood the fallout would destroy more than just him if the truth came out. He was eighteen — old enough to know how fragile a home could become when you struck the wrong match.
If no one knew, maybe it could stay standing.
Laura patted his shoulder. "I'm going to start dinner. You hang out for a bit. Maybe take a walk later, get some air."
Noah nodded again.
Anything to keep her from looking too closely.
Evelyn sat alone by the train window, city lights streaking past like fresh cuts against the dark.
Inside the carriage it was quiet — the kind of quiet that made guilt louder, sharper. Her body still remembered everything. Pain threaded through her like a dull, persistent reminder. Worse than the pain was the echo of wanting, the ugly, grasping hunger that had pushed her past every boundary she'd ever pretended to have.
She pressed her forehead to the cold glass and watched her reflection slide over the night outside.
She knew the truth she could never say aloud.
Noah was never supposed to be hers.
Not the way she wanted him.
Not in the way her mind had started to demand, quietly at first, then louder, until it drowned out everything else.
But the thought of losing him — of watching him grow up and give his loyalty, his love, his future to someone else — had felt like being erased. She had been adopted into his family, carried into their home, given warmth and a last name and a seat at the table.
And somewhere along the way, gratitude had twisted into possession.
Somewhere along the way, she had stopped seeing him as a brother and started seeing him as the only thing in her life that felt truly, violently hers.
When the phone rang, she'd braced for rage. For tears. For accusation. For a voice telling her she had ruined everything.
Instead, he had protected her.
He had kept calling her his sister.
He had told her to be safe.
Evelyn closed her eyes and felt something inside her twist — sharp with relief, sick with longing.
She had destroyed what they were supposed to be.
And he was still trying to hold it together with a single word.
Outside, the night deepened.
Evelyn's lips moved without sound at first, as if she were afraid even the empty carriage would hear.
Then, barely audible, she whispered, "Noah."
And after a breath that shook her whole body, she added, "I love you."
Not the safe kind of love.
Not the kind families were allowed.
The kind that swallowed people whole.
Seasons would change, memories would fade, people would pretend.
He would still call her his sister.
And she would still want him to mean it — even knowing he never could again