My Stepbrother secret obsession

"The Stranger in My Kitchen"

There are few things more sacred to me than my early mornings- silence, solitude, and coffee. So when I padded into the kitchen barefoot and groggy, fully expecting to have the house to myself, the last thing I was prepared for was the shirtless stranger standing at our granite island like he belonged there.

He was tall, lean but muscular, his back a canvas of intricate ink that crawled over his shoulder and down his arm. His dark hair was tousled in a perfectly messy way, and he wore nothing but black sweatpants that sat low on his hips. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine-a brooding model with a cigarette behind his ear and a dangerous glint in his eye.

My hand froze on the cabinet door.

He turned around slowly, sensing my presence, and met my stunned gaze with amused, ice-blue eyes.

"Morning, princess," he said smoothly, lifting the mug to his lips. His voice was low and slightly hoarse, like he'd been up all night drinking or screaming into the void. Probably both.

I blinked. Twice.

Then I snapped back into reality. "Who the hell are you?"

He quirked a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a lazy grin. "Wow. We're skipping introductions now?"

I narrowed my eyes. "I'm serious."

He put the mug down with a quiet clink and crossed his arms, muscles flexing in a way that felt completely unnecessary. "Jace Sullivan. Your new stepbrother."

No.

No, no, no.

This was not happening.

I stepped back like he might disappear if I stared hard enough. "You weren't supposed to be here."

"That's what I hear," he said, shrugging one tattooed shoulder. "Change of plans."

My stomach turned, cold and tight. I remembered my mom's call last week, her excited voice gushing about how she and Mark had eloped in Vegas. Classic Beth Matthews behavior-falling in love after three months and marrying a guy with a grown son she barely mentioned. I hadn't thought much of it. I'd assumed I'd never meet him, not when he lived across the country and was "busy figuring himself out."

Apparently, he figured himself right into my kitchen.

"How long are you staying?" I asked carefully.

He looked far too comfortable, like he'd already claimed the space. "Indefinitely."

Indefinitely. The word echoed in my head like a curse.

"You can't just move in."

Jace smirked and leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee again like he had all the time in the world. "Tell that to your mom. Or my dad. They seem pretty convinced this is a fresh start."

I felt heat rise to my face-not from attraction, though if I were being honest, he was insanely attractive-but from pure, unfiltered rage. My entire summer had been planned around having the house to myself. A final breath of freedom before college. Time to read, write, think-be.

Now, I was stuck sharing space with him.

"I don't care what your reason is," I said, grabbing the cereal box from the top shelf a little more aggressively than necessary. "Just stay out of my way."

"No promises." He grinned. "You don't seem like the kind of girl who's easy to ignore."

I turned my back to him, pouring cereal into a bowl. My hands shook slightly, and I hated that he could see it. I hated more that I was aware of him-his gaze, his voice, the way he was watching me with that lazy curiosity that made my skin crawl and tingle all at once.

"Seriously, Lena," he said after a moment. "You're not even a little glad to see me?"

I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth. "How do you know my name?"

He didn't miss a beat. "You talk in your sleep."

My head whipped around. "Excuse me?"

That infuriating smirk widened. "Relax. I heard your mom say it yesterday. You were already asleep when I got in."

I exhaled through my nose, forcing myself to calm down. It was too early to have a meltdown. I had finals next week, an internship to prepare for, and now a stepbrother who looked like a delinquent version of every bad boy fantasy rolled into one tall glass of trouble.

I took my cereal to the far end of the kitchen, sat down, and tried to focus on chewing. But I could still feel him. He hadn't moved. He was still leaning, still watching, still radiating that quiet storm energy that made it impossible to breathe normally.

"You're staring," I muttered without looking up.

"You're interesting."

"I'm eating cereal."

He shrugged. "You can tell a lot about someone by how they eat breakfast."

I looked up at him slowly. "And what have you learned? That I like Frosted Flakes and hate company?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and rumbling. "Something like that."

We sat in silence after that. Well, I sat. He loomed. And I hated that a part of me-not a big part, but enough to make me uncomfortable-was curious. About the ink on his body. About why he left California. About what kind of trouble he meant when he said "got into some."

He didn't look like someone who shared his secrets easily.

"Did you get kicked out or something?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He raised a brow. "Is that what your mom told you?"

"No. She just said you were staying here for a while."

"Then maybe you should ask her."

I frowned. "I'm asking you."

He paused. Something flickered behind his eyes-an edge, a shadow- but it vanished before I could name it.

"I made some poor choices," he said vaguely. "Now I'm here."

I opened my mouth to press further, but he cut me off.

"You don't have to like me, Lena. I'm not here to mess up your perfect little world."

I bristled. "You don't know anything about my world."

He nodded once. "You're right. But I've lived enough lives to know the type."

"The type?"

"You walk around with a chip on your shoulder, books in your arms, and expectations a mile high. You don't like mess. And you definitely don't like people like me."