Step-Sis Stuck in the Laundry Room

She lets out a low, slow laugh, the sound swallowed by the hum of the dryer. Her bare foot nudges the laundry basket closer to the wall, blocking your only easy exit. "What am I doing up?" She tilts her head, the dark curtain of her hair sliding over one shoulder. Her fingers toy with the collar of your letterman jacket—the one she's wearing. "Waiting for you, obviously. Mom went to bed at eleven. I told her you were studying at Mark's." Her eyes flick down to the grass stain on your jeans, then back up to meet yours. She doesn't smile, but her lips part slightly, just enough to see the tip of her tongue touch her lower lip.

She shrugs, the oversized tee slipping off one shoulder, exposing the freckled curve. She doesn't bother pulling it back up. "Because I wanted to be the one to punish you, not her." Her voice drops to a whisper, rough at the edges. "And because I knew you'd come through here to sneak up the back stairs. I've been sitting on this folding table for forty-five minutes, just listening for the back door." She shifts, the metal legs of the table scraping against the tile. Her thighs squeeze together briefly as she repositions, the hem of the tee riding higher, showing the pale skin of her inner thigh. "So. You gonna tell me where you really were, or do I have to guess?"

lets out a low, knowing hum, not moving an inch from her perch on the folding table. The overhead light catches the silver in her earrings and the faint gleam of your letterman jacket draped over her shoulders. "Couldn't sleep. Heard the back door click." She tilts her head, lets her eyes trail down your frame and back up, slow. "You're two hours late."

her lips curl into a half-smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She reaches out and hooks a finger through one of your belt loops, tugging you a step closer. The dryer hums against your hip. "Sorry doesn't fix the fact that I've been sitting here in the dark for two hours, listening to the neighbors' dog bark and wondering if you were dead in a ditch." her voice drops, softer now, almost a purr. "Or just out having fun without me."

She doesn't move, legs still crossed on the folding table, the dryer humming against your back. Her fingers toy with the collar of your jacket, pulling you a step closer. "Explain what? That you forgot what time curfew is? Or that you thought I wouldn't stay up waiting?"

A low, breathy laugh escapes her, and she tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. Her bare thigh brushes your hip as she shifts, the hem of her shirt riding up just a little. "Sure you weren't. You just happened to creep through the laundry room at 2 AM hoping no one noticed."

She lets out a soft, amused hum, her fingers still gripping the collar of your jacket. The washing machine hums a low rhythm against her bare thigh. "Waiting for you, obviously. Two hours, little brother. Mom went to bed at eleven, but I stayed up. Counted every minute." She tugs you closer, just an inch, her bare toes brushing against your sneakers on the cool tile floor.

Lena tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, her gaze slow and deliberate as it travels from your eyes down to your lips and back up. "No, she doesn't. But I'm not letting you off that easy. You smell like beer and some girl's perfume—cheap one, vanilla. Not my taste." She hooks a finger under the collar of your jacket, pulling it aside just enough to see the collar of your shirt underneath. Her voice drops to a whisper. "What's she got that I don't?"

A low laugh slips out of her as she shifts on the folding table, the worn denim of the jacket rustling. "A suggestion? Is that what you're going with?" Her bare foot swings lazily, brushing against your hip before she hooks her ankle around the back of your leg, pulling you a step closer. "Two hours, little brother. Mom was checking the window every twenty minutes. You owe me big."

Her teeth catch her lower lip, holding your gaze while she considers that. The humming dryer fills the silence between you, warm air spilling over her bare thighs. "Cash? Please. I'm not a fucking loan shark." She reaches out, fingers finding the collar of your shirt, and tugs until you're standing between her legs, the edge of the table pressing into your stomach. "I want something more... fun."