Chapter five

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Dylan didn't give Moana a choice.

His hand wrapped around her wrist, firm and unyielding, and he pulled her into the nearest empty classroom. The door slammed shut behind them with a dull thud, the echo swallowing the quiet space. Only a thin wash of afternoon light filtered through the blinds.

Moana yanked her hand back the second he released it, stumbling a step away. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me?" Dylan's voice was low, controlled, but sharp enough to cut. "You've been avoiding me all weekend. You left Saturday night without a word. Locked your door. Didn't show up for meals. So no, Queens, what's wrong with me isn't the question."

He stepped closer.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I was tired," she said.

"Bullshit."

She lifted her chin. "I didn't feel like staying. I wanted to go home. That's it."

"You're lying."

"And what exactly are you going to do about it?" Moana crossed her arms. "Look, just because we're stepsiblings now doesn't mean we need to pretend we like each other. I hate you. You hate me. We act civil around our parents. And what happened on Saturday night will not happen again. End of story."

"End of story," Dylan repeated quietly.

"Yes." She tried to move around him, but he shifted instantly, blocking her path.

His next words came softer and more dangerous.

"Do you really hate me, Queens?"

Moana's pulse jumped. She felt her throat tightened.

"Yes," she forced the word out.

Dylan moved closer, one slow, deliberate step at a time until her back hit the wall and the cold surface pressed against her spine. He braced one hand beside her head, caging her in without touching her.

He was so close that she could smell him. She could see the gold flecks lit up in his green eyes.

"Say it again," he murmured.

Her breath stalled. Her heart pounded hard enough that he had to hear it. She wanted to push him and run. But her body stayed exactly where it was.

A minute of silence passed between them before Moana was able to find her voice.

"I hate everything about you," she said. Her voice was shaking. "So stay away from me."

Then she shoved past him, hard, and stormed out.

Her hands trembled as she walked down the hall. She curled them into fists until her nails bit her palms.

---

Octavia and Lalissa were already at their usual cafeteria table, trays loaded. Their faces softened with concern when Moana approached.

"You okay?" Octavia asked, sitting straighter.

Moana dropped into her seat and forced a smile. "Yeah. What did you guys get me?"

"Some salad and fries," Lalissa said, sliding a tray over. "Your usual."

"Thanks."

Octavia leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Moana, what did he say?"

"Nothing important." Moana stabbed a fry, chewing without tasting it. "He just wanted to talk."

"About what?"

"Nothing. It's done."

Her friends exchanged a look but didn't push, and Moana was grateful. She didn't want to talk about Dylan. Didn't want to remember how close he'd been to her. How her body reacted in ways she didn't understand—didn't like.

Didn't want to think about.

They finished lunch with safer conversations: cheer practice, homework, the upcoming game. Moana played along, nodded at the right moments, but her head felt distant, foggy, somewhere else entirely.

By the end of the school day, exhaustion clung to her like a second skin.

---

Moana ordered a ride home, sitting in the back seat with her head against the window as the city blurred past. The driver tried to make small talk but she gave short answers until he gave up. By the time they pulled into the driveway, the sun was starting to set.

She climbed out, thanked the driver quietly, and walked to the front door. The house was silent when she stepped inside. She glanced at the driveway. Richard had several cars, so seeing vehicles there didn't mean anyone was actually home.

The silence confirmed it. She was alone.

Good. She didn't have the energy to pretend.

Moana dropped her bag in her room and collapsed onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. She tried not to think about Dylan. She tried not to replay the moment his body caged hers and tried not to feel the echo of his presence in her chest.

But It didn't work.

Hours passed. The house stayed silent. The light outside her window faded from gold to purple to black.

Eventually, her stomach growled loudly, reminding her she'd barely eaten the salad and fries at lunch.

She'd grab something and come right back upstairs. Avoiding Dylan is the plan now, it was not supposed to be like this but living under the same roof has changed everything.

Moana looked at her reflection in the mirror, she's wearing a black shorts and a fitted singlet, hair piled into a messy bun, and made her way quietly downstairs. The house was mostly dark, except for the glow of the kitchen lights spilling down the hall.

She stepped inside…

And froze.

Dylan was at the counter.

Shirtless.

The muscles in his back shifted as he lifted a glass. His shoulders were broad, defined, his skin catching the light. His blonde hair fell forward slightly, obscuring part of his face when he turned just enough to register her presence.

Moana considered leaving.

Hungry wasn't that bad.

But her feet carried her forward anyway.

She walked past him without a word, refusing to glance his way. Opened the fridge and grabbed leftover pasta. She acted as if he was invisible.

But she felt him watching her. She felt the heat of his gaze like it was pressed against her skin.

She put the pasta in the microwave and crossed her arms as she waited, pretending the timer was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen.

A full minute of silence passed.

Then, finally, his voice cut through the room, quiet, low, and dangerous.

"Mind how you dress around the house, Queens."

Moana's head snapped toward him.

He was leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes dragging over her slowly, taking in every inch of exposed skin.

"Excuse me?" she said.

"You heard me." His voice dropped even lower. "You walk around like that and you forget something."

Her pulse stumbled. "Forget what?"

Dylan's eyes locked on hers, dark and unreadable.

"I'm a fucker, remember?" His gaze dropped to her thighs, then dragged back up to meet her eyes. "And I wouldn't mind bending you over the kitchen counter."

Then he pushed off the counter and walked out, leaving her alone with the microwave's soft hum.

The timer beeped.

Moana stood frozen, her skin burning where his gaze had lingered, her breath unsteady and uneven, heat pooling low in her stomach.

And for the first time since Saturday night, she didn't know if what she felt was fur or something far more dangerous.

Dylan is playing a game and it's making her body heat up.