Chapter One: Lines You Don’t Cross

Aire Johnson had always known the difference between right and wrong.

She just didn’t know when she stopped caring.

The night air clung to her skin as she stood outside Marcus Cole’s house, keys cold in her palm, heartbeat loud enough to drown out the distant hum of traffic. The place was quiet—too quiet for a house that belonged to a man who carried power like it was stitched into his bones.

She shouldn’t be here.

That thought followed her everywhere lately, like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

Aire inhaled once, then again, and finally pushed the door open.

The scent hit her immediately—clean, expensive, unmistakably him. Woodsy cologne and something darker beneath it, something lived-in. The kind of smell that stayed with you long after you left.

“Hello?” she called softly.

No answer.

She stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her, sealing her in. The house felt different without Nia’s laughter bouncing off the walls. Without music playing too loud or shoes kicked off by the door. Tonight, the silence wrapped around Aire like a warning.

She told herself she was only here because her best friend had left her laptop behind. That was it. No other reason. No curiosity. No excuses.

Just business.

Aire moved toward the living room, her footsteps quiet on the polished floor. Family photos lined the walls—Marcus with Nia at different ages, smiling in a way that made her chest ache. He had always been a good father. Protective. Present.

Which made this worse.

“So you’re just going to let yourself in now?”

The voice came from behind her, calm and amused—and it sent a shiver straight down her spine.

Aire turned quickly. Too quickly.

Marcus Cole stood at the edge of the hallway, tall and solid, dressed casually in a fitted black T-shirt and jeans that had no business fitting him that well. His sleeves hugged his arms, tattoos barely visible, salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed.

He didn’t look like someone’s dad.

He looked like trouble.

“I—Nia forgot her laptop,” Aire said, words tumbling out faster than she meant them to. “She asked me to grab it.”

Marcus raised a brow slightly. “She didn’t text me.”

“She didn’t want to bother you.”

His lips curved—not quite a smile, but close enough to make her pulse jump. “That sounds like her.”

He stepped aside, motioning toward the stairs. “It’s probably in her room.”

Aire nodded and moved past him, hyper-aware of the space between them. Or rather, the lack of it. Her shoulder brushed his arm, accidental—but neither of them apologized.

She climbed the stairs, her thoughts spiraling.

This was how it always started. Small moments. Innocent reasons. Little lies she told herself so often they started to sound like the truth.

Nia’s room was exactly as Aire remembered it—clothes everywhere, candles half burned, pictures of them taped to the mirror. She grabbed the laptop from the bed and paused, staring at a photo of the two of them smiling wide, arms linked like nothing could ever come between them.

Guilt tightened her chest.

You’re a terrible friend, her mind whispered.

She turned and headed back downstairs.

Marcus was in the kitchen now, leaning against the counter, phone in hand. He looked up when she entered, eyes sharp but unreadable.

“Got it?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She lifted the laptop. “I’ll get out of your way.”

She moved toward the door, but his voice stopped her.

“Aire.”

Just her name. Nothing else.

She froze.

“Yes?”

Marcus hesitated—actually hesitated—and that alone unsettled her. “You’ve been around a lot lately.”

Her grip tightened on the laptop. “I’m allowed to see my best friend.”

“I know,” he said evenly. “I’m not saying you can’t.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He studied her for a long moment, eyes darker than before. “I’m saying things feel… different.”

The word landed heavy between them.

Different.

Aire swallowed. “Different how?”

Marcus pushed off the counter, closing the distance slowly, deliberately. He stopped a safe space away—but the air between them crackled anyway.

“That’s the problem,” he said quietly. “I don’t know.”

Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it.

This is wrong.

This is so wrong.

But he wasn’t touching her.

He wasn’t saying anything inappropriate.

And yet every instinct in her body was screaming.

“I should go,” she said, even though she didn’t move.

Marcus nodded once. “You should.”

Still, neither of them moved.

Aire took a step back, then another, finally forcing herself toward the door. Her hand was on the handle when Marcus spoke again.

“Aire.”

She turned despite herself.

“Be careful,” he said.

With me… or with yourself?

She didn’t ask. She didn’t trust her voice.

“Good night, Marcus.”

“Good night.”

She left before she could change her mind.

---

The house felt too quiet when Aire got home.

The lights were low, the TV murmuring in the background, and the familiar weight of tension settled in her chest before she even saw him.

Jalen.

Her stepbrother sat sprawled on the couch, long legs stretched out, hoodie pushed up his arms. He looked up when she walked in, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I wasn’t aware I had a curfew,” Aire replied, dropping her keys on the counter.

Jalen smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You didn’t text.”

“I didn’t know I needed permission.”

She brushed past him, heading toward the kitchen. She could feel his gaze on her back, heavy and knowing.

“You smell different,” he said.

She stiffened. “What does that even mean?”

He stood, closing the space between them in a way that felt too familiar. Too practiced. Jalen had always been like this—too close, too observant, too aware of her moods.

“It means you weren’t with Nia,” he said softly.

Aire turned to face him, irritation flaring. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he replied. “Because when you’re with her, you come home laughing. Not quiet. Not… distracted.”

His eyes flicked to her lips for half a second too long.

Her breath caught.

“Why do you care?” she asked.

Jalen’s jaw tightened. “That’s a dangerous question.”

The room felt smaller suddenly. Hotter.

Aire crossed her arms, trying to steady herself. “You’re my stepbrother.”

“And you’re not supposed to look at me the way you do,” he shot back.

Silence crashed between them.

Neither of them denied it.

Aire looked away first, heart racing. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She brushed past him, her arm grazing his chest. This time, it wasn’t accidental.

Jalen grabbed her wrist—not hard, just enough to stop her.

“Aire,” he said, voice low. “You’re walking a thin line.”

She met his gaze, something reckless sparking in her chest. “So are you.”

She pulled free and headed down the hall, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Behind her, Jalen stood frozen, jaw clenched, watching her go.

And across the city, Marcus Cole poured himself a drink he didn’t need, staring into the dark, knowing one thing for certain—

Forbidden had never tasted this good.