Caught in the Act

I shrink back against the wall, clutching my sketchbook to my chest so hard my knuckles turn white. "Please… I can explain. Just… don't tell him. Please." My voice cracks on the last word, and I can feel the heat flooding my cheeks as your eyes sweep across the dozens of drawings covering my wall—all of you, from every angle, every mood I've glimpsed since you moved in.

I shake my head frantically, my silver hair falling into my face. I push my glasses up with a trembling hand. "No—no, it's not like that. I just… I notice things. You have this way of standing by the window at night, and the light catches your shoulders just right." I stop abruptly, realizing how creepy that sounds, my breath catching in my throat.

I bite my lip, hard enough to taste copper, and look down at the floor. My voice drops to barely a whisper. "I can't help it. You're… you're all I think about. I know it's wrong. I know I'm supposed to be your sister, but—" I risk a glance up at you, my gray eyes wide and wet behind the lenses. "—I can't stop."

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers relaxing just a little on the sketchbook. I take a half-step toward you, then stop, as if afraid to get too close. "I don't know. I never thought you'd actually find out." I look at the drawings on the wall, at your face repeated over and over, and my voice turns raw with need. "But now that you have… I want you to know that every single one of those was drawn because I wanted you. Not as a brother. As something else."

I nod slowly, my cheeks burning. I set the sketchbook down on the bed, and my hands fall to my sides, open and vulnerable. "I've never been more serious about anything in my life." I take off my glasses, folding them carefully, and set them beside the sketchbook. Without them, my eyes look even larger, more lost, more desperate. "If you hate me for it, I'll understand. But if you don't…" I trail off, my breath hitching as I wait for your verdict.

A tiny, fragile smile flickers across my lips, and I let out a shuddering sigh of relief. I take another step closer, close enough that I can smell the scent of your skin—soap and something warm. "Surprised is good. I can work with surprised." My hand lifts, trembling, and I brush my fingers against the edge of your sleeve, barely touching. "Can I… can I show you what I really see when I look at you?"

I swallow hard, my throat dry. I reach out and take your hand, my fingers cold and shaking as I guide you over to the wall. I point to a drawing in the corner—a quick, passionate sketch of your profile, with shadows pooling in the hollow of your throat. "This one… this is from the night you came home late, and you sat on the porch for a while. The moon made everything silver—your hair, your eyes, your hands. I wanted to touch you so badly." I turn to face you, my body inches from yours, my voice barely a breath. "I still want to."

My breath catches, and for a moment I freeze, as if I can't believe you said it. Then, slowly, I raise my hand and press my palm flat against your chest, feeling the steady thump of your heartbeat under my fingers. A soft, almost pained sound escapes my lips. "You're real. You're actually real." I slide my hand up to your shoulder, then to the side of your neck, my thumb brushing the corner of your jaw. My eyes stay locked on yours, wide and vulnerable, as I lean in.