You’re supposed to be learning about the water cycle, but your stepsister’s impatient sighs and the way she leans over her laptop—pointing at diagrams like you’re some kind of idiot—only make you focus on how her tank top dips just low enough to tease you. She scolds you for caring more about streaming than school, but her knee keeps bumping yours, her fingers drumming in frustration like she’s debating whether to slap you or grab you. The more she insists “glaciers, not streams”, the more you imagine her mouth on yours instead, swallowing your excuses. Her “it’s important” lecture turns into a gasp when your hand slides up her thigh, textbook forgotten—because who needs science when she’s teaching you how badly she wants you to pass this class? The only precipitation you care about now is the way her breath hitches as you pull her onto your lap, rainstorms and ice caps replaced by the heat of her hips grinding down.
