Since Fifteen
"Twelve years of sneaking away at family reunions. Twelve years of pretending they're just close cousins. She signals. He follows. He always follows."
I see her the moment I walk in.
Sophie is standing by the fireplace, wine glass in hand, laughing at something Uncle Ted said. Her dress is dark green, hugging every curve — and there are so many curves. Full breasts, soft belly, wide hips that sway when she shifts her weight.
She's been built like that since we were fifteen. I've loved it since before I knew what loving meant.
Our eyes meet across the room.
Everything else disappears.
Twelve years.
That's how long we've been doing this. Family reunions, holidays, weddings, funerals — any time the family gathers, we find each other. It's not a choice anymore. It's gravity.
She tilts her head slightly. The signal. Toward the stairs.
I check my watch. Give it five minutes.
She slips away, pausing to kiss Grandma's cheek on her way out. Good granddaughter. Beloved cousin. Nobody notices where she's going.
Nobody ever notices.
The guest room is at the end of the upstairs hall.
Same room where it started. Flowered wallpaper that was outdated even then. A brass bed that creaks if you move too fast. The smell of lavender and old books.
Sophie is sitting on the edge of the bed when I walk in. She's already unzipped the back of her dress, holding it up with one hand.
"Took you long enough."
"Had to say hi to Aunt Marge. She cornered me about my career."
"Did you tell her you're a consultant?"
"Told her I push papers and make spreadsheets. Her eyes glazed over in thirty seconds."
Sophie laughs. That laugh — low, warm, mine. "Get over here."
I lock the door behind me.
The first time was in this room.
I remember every detail. Fifteen years old, hiding from the adults during Thanksgiving. She was wearing a purple sweater that strained across breasts I'd just started noticing. We were playing cards, barely paying attention.
"Have you ever kissed anyone?" she asked.
"No."
"Me neither." She set down her cards. "Want to practice?"
It was innocent. That's what we told ourselves. Practice. Curiosity. Cousin stuff.
It stopped being innocent pretty fast.
I cross to the bed and she stands to meet me.
We don't rush. We never rush. After twelve years, there's no urgency — just certainty. I know exactly what she likes. She knows exactly what I need.
My hands find the zipper she's already started. I pull it down the rest of the way. The dress pools at her feet.
Black bra. Black panties. Curves that stop my heart.
"You're staring," she says.
"Always."
"Twelve years of staring."
"Not enough." I cup her face, kiss her soft. "Never enough."
At sixteen, we had sex for the first time.
Same room. Summer reunion. Parents were playing horseshoes in the backyard, siblings were in the pool. We snuck away like we'd started doing every time.
She was shaking. So was I.
"Are you sure?" I asked, even though I was dying.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
It was awkward and fast and over too quickly. But afterward, lying there, her head on my chest, her soft body pressed against mine — I knew I was ruined.
No one else would ever feel like this.
I was right.
I unhook her bra. Her breasts spill free — heavy, full, nipples already hard.
I've watched these breasts change over twelve years. Watched them grow, settle, become exactly what they are now. I know every inch of them. The freckle under her left one. The way the right is slightly larger. How she gasps when I take them in my mouth.
"God," she breathes as I worship her. "God, I missed you."
"It's been three months."
"Too long."
"I know."
We see each other at every family event. Text constantly. Call late at night when we can't sleep. But it's never enough. The space between is always too long.
At eighteen, we tried to stop.
College. Different states. Real relationships with real people who weren't blood relatives.
I dated Sarah for two years. She was nice. Normal. She liked me fine.
Every time I was inside her, I thought about Sophie.
Sophie dated Marcus for three years. Almost got engaged.
She called me crying the night she broke it off. "I can't do it. I can't marry someone I don't love."
"You don't love him?"
"I love you." Her voice cracked. "I've always loved you. I'm never going to love anyone else."
I drove eight hours through the night to see her. We didn't leave her apartment for three days.
I lay her on the bed.
She's spread beneath me, all that softness, all that warmth. I kiss down her body — her throat, her breasts, her belly. I've kissed these places a thousand times. I'll kiss them a thousand more.
"Remember that time we almost got caught?" she murmurs.
"Which time?"
"The wedding. Your sister's."
I laugh against her skin. "Your dad opened the wrong door."
"We had two seconds to get dressed."
"I don't think I've ever moved that fast."
"He still doesn't know. No one knows."
"That's what makes us good."
Twenty-two. The wedding.
I was a groomsman. She was a bridesmaid. We'd been apart for six months — the longest ever. The sight of her in that lavender dress almost brought me to my knees.
The reception was chaos. We found a coat closet. Made do with what we had.
Her uncle opened the door looking for his jacket. We froze. He squinted into the dark, grabbed a coat, left without turning on the light.
We waited ten minutes to breathe.
Then we finished what we started.
I pull her panties down. She's wet already — always is, for me.
"You're so beautiful," I tell her.
"I'm fat."
"You're perfect." I part her thighs, settle between them. "You've always been perfect."
"You're biased."
"Completely." I kiss her inner thigh. "Hopelessly." The other thigh. "Terminally."
"Drama queen."
"Your drama queen."
She smiles. That smile that's only for me. That no one else ever sees.
I lower my mouth to her and make her stop smiling.
Twenty-five. Rock bottom.
I was dating someone serious. Jen. She wanted to move in together. Talked about rings. About futures.
Sophie was seeing a guy named Derek. Also serious. Also talking futures.
We tried — really tried — to be normal. To let each other go.
We lasted four months.
Christmas Eve, I was at my parents'. She was at hers. Different cities, different celebrations.
She texted at midnight: I can't do this.
I texted back: Neither can I.
We met in the middle. A motel off the highway. Three hours each way.
When I walked through that door, when I saw her sitting on that ugly bedspread, something in me broke.
"I'm never doing this again," I said.
"Doing what?"
"Pretending I can live without you."
She comes on my tongue with her hand pressed against her mouth.
The walls here are thin. The family is loud, but not loud enough to cover certain sounds. We've learned to be quiet. To swallow our noises. To save the screaming for the rare times we're truly alone.
"Please," she gasps. "I need you."
I don't make her wait.
I push inside her and everything goes quiet.
This is home. This is where I belong. Inside her, surrounded by her, as close as two people can be.
"I love you," I say.
We don't say it often. The words feel too big. Too real. They make what we are undeniable.
But sometimes I can't help it.
"I love you too." Her eyes are wet. "I've loved you since we were fifteen years old."
"Longer." I start to move. "I loved you before I knew what it was."
"So did I." She wraps around me, pulls me deeper. "So did I."
We find our rhythm.
The bed creaks and we slow down. Listen. No footsteps on the stairs. The party continues below — laughter, music, the sounds of family.
They have no idea.
We move together like we've always moved. Perfectly synced. Years of practice. I know when she's close by the way her breath changes. She knows when I'm close by the way my jaw tightens.
"Together," she whispers.
"Together."
Twenty-seven. Now.
We've stopped trying to be normal. Stopped dating other people. Stopped pretending.
We tell our families we're too busy for relationships. Focused on careers. Married to our jobs.
They believe us. Why wouldn't they? We're good, responsible adults who happen to be close with our cousin. Nothing strange about that.
What they don't know: we talk every day. See each other once a month at least. Take "separate vacations" that always end up in the same place.
What they don't know: she's the love of my life. The only one there will ever be.
What they don't know: this has been going on since we were fifteen fucking years old and it's never going to stop.
We come together.
Her whole body arches beneath me. I bury my face in her neck to muffle the groan I can't hold back. She shudders around me, milking every drop, holding me inside her like she never wants to let go.
For a long moment, we just breathe.
"We should stop," she says eventually.
It's what she always says. The ritual.
"I know."
"This is crazy."
"I know."
"We're going to get caught someday."
"I know."
"And we'll do it again next time anyway."
"I know."
She laughs. Kisses my forehead.
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
We clean up. Fix our clothes. Check each other for telltale signs.
"Hair." I smooth a strand that's sticking up.
"Collar." She adjusts mine.
"Lipstick." I wipe a smudge from my neck.
"There." She steps back, examines me. "Perfect. No one will know."
"No one ever knows."
"That's because we're good at this."
"Twelve years of practice."
She smiles. Sad and happy and everything in between.
"Same time at Christmas?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
I go down first.
Uncle Ted hands me a beer. Grandma asks if I've found a nice girl yet. Mom wants to know when I'm going to settle down.
"One of these days," I tell them all.
Sophie appears ten minutes later. Fresh glass of wine. Fresh smile.
Our aunt corners her. "Sophie, sweetheart, you're not getting any younger. Don't you want a family?"
"Someday," Sophie says. "When I find the right person."
Her eyes find mine across the room.
I look away before I give us both away.
Later, the party winds down.
I'm leaving, saying my goodbyes. Sophie is doing the same. We pass each other in the doorway.
"Drive safe," she says.
"You too."
Our hands brush. Just for a second. Just enough.
"Text me when you get home," she murmurs.
"Always do."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
We walk to separate cars. Drive in opposite directions. Go back to our separate lives.
Until next time.
On the drive home, my phone buzzes.
Sophie: Already miss you.
Me: Me too.
Sophie: Thanksgiving?
Me: Wouldn't miss it.
Sophie: It's a date.
Me: Our only kind.
Sophie: The best kind.
She sends a heart. I send one back.
Twelve years. Countless nights. One secret.
And I'd do it all again.
Every single time.