Is It wrong?

i.

You blinked twice, lifting your fists to your eyes and rubbing away the last remnants of sleep as you rolled onto your back with a groan. The curtains were drawn, leaving the room reasonably dim, but you could see fragments of warm morning light spilling out from the edges, casting long sunspots along the bed.

Something felt wrong.

You turned your head slightly, directing your eyes towards the wall opposite you; you were met with the vacant stare of curvy brunette model, dressed only in a leather jacket and panties, and all at once you realized where you were.

Michael's room.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

The memories from the night before came flooding back to you like a tsunami: Michael's large hands groping your sensitive flesh, his soft lips on your hot skin, his hooded eyes looking up at you from between your parted thighs.

Holy ever loving mother of christ.

You shot up from beneath the blankets, scrambling from the bed and meeting your bare feet with the carpeted floor. According to the clock on Michael's bedside table, it was 9:30 am. You saw the bong beside it, blackened chunks of weed still left behind in the metal bowl, reminding you of how you'd even allowed yourself to go through with something so utterly stupid.

This was not good. This was really, really not good. You were granted some relief when you noticed that at some point the night before, you'd dressed yourself again before falling asleep (in your fucking stepbrother's bed! What if someone had walked in?, you thought with a shake of your head). You left Michael's room as quickly as you could; as soon as you got into the hallway, your senses were overtaken with the smell of sizzling bacon- your father always made a point to cook breakfast for everyone on the weekends, hoping that would somehow better establish a family dynamic.

You stopped in your room to change into a pair of sweatpants and oversized t-shirt, figuring your parents might be suspicious should you come downstairs in last night's clothes. Then you headed down to the kitchen, attempting to compose yourself as best you could.

Your father was standing behind the stove, mixing a bowl of pancake batter while Miriam worked the coffee machine; at the table sat Michael, hardly looking up as you entered, distracted by something on his phone. You looked away before he had the chance to make eye contact.

"Look who's finally decided to join us," said your father playfully, spooning a ladle full of batter onto the iron pan.

You gave him a weak smile. "'Morning."

"How did your date go?" asked Miriam as she poured a stream of black coffee into her favorite mug.

"Uh, it was okay."

You were far from in the mood to explain what had happened the night before, so you decided instead to play it cool for now and then never mention the boy again.