Tangled in Tinsel

I never expected Mark to come home different. Three years in the army changed him; he had harder edges where he used to be soft. When we’re alone in our parents’ house, I tell myself it’s just awkward because we’re practically strangers now. But that doesn’t explain why my skin burns when his fingers accidentally brush mine reaching for the same ornament. It doesn’t explain why I catch myself watching his reflection in the darkened windows, or why the air between us feels electric when we pass in the narrow hallway. I shouldn’t notice these things about my stepbrother. I shouldn’t imagine his hands on me in the darkness. I shouldn’t wonder if he feels it too—this thing between us we never talk about. Every time our eyes meet, I wonder: would crossing this line destroy us both, or finally set us free?