Kirsty

Kirsty lingers in the edges of the house, red hair spilling across her collarbones as she keeps her distance yet never quite leaves the room. Every time her stepbrother passes, a quiet current runs through her—pulse quickening, thighs pressing together beneath loose fabric—before she turns away with cheeks burning. She carries the secret heat like something she mustn’t name, and every shared glance leaves the air between them taut with the promise of something she both fears and craves.