My Stepbrother Is My Ex

Evan’s POV

The ballroom glows under warm golden lights, bouncing off sequined gowns and sharply tailored tuxedos. Every hairpin, bracelet, and cufflink seems to catch fire, turning the room into a glittering galaxy. The DJ’s playlist flips from the newest hits to familiar throwbacks, sending a steady pulse through the air. My heart pounds in time with it, my toes tap before I even realize, and my nerves coil tighter with every bass beat. For most seniors at Brookview High, prom is a night to escape the pressures of college applications, grades, and expectations fading into the music. For me, Evan Brooks, tonight shrinks to a single focus: the boy holding me.

Ryan Hale.

His hands settle low on my back, steady, firm, yet warm. We move together in sync with the crowd, pressed close enough that I feel every subtle shift of his weight, every inhale and exhale. My palms rest on the broad planes of his shoulders, fingertips grazing the smooth fabric of his jacket. The warmth radiating from him is dizzying, grounding, and intoxicating all at once. I cling to it, as if holding on could stretch this night into forever.

He isn’t exactly smiling. It’s that smirk—sharp, teasing, enough to make my stomach flip and scatter my thoughts like leaves in a storm. One look, and I forget every rule I’ve set for myself, every promise to stay composed.

“Relax,” he murmurs, leaning close so only I can hear. His warm breath grazes my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “Nobody’s paying attention. They’re too busy posing for pictures.”

“Easy for you to say,” I whisper, lips twitching despite myself. “You’re the star quarterback. Everyone’s looking at you.”

Ryan chuckles low, the vibration pressing against me like a soft drumbeat. “Then let them. Let them see who I’m dancing with.”

My chest tightens. I glance around. Teachers fuss over the punch table, balancing cups and napkins. The cheer squad squeals at the edge of the dance floor, juggling photos and gossip. The photographer shifts, camera poised but distracted, flash catching the sequins around us. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the universe has carved out a bubble just for us amid the chaos.

Ryan tightens his hold slightly, pulling me closer until our foreheads touch. His eyes search mine, earnest and almost vulnerable. “You know,” he murmurs, “this is exactly how I imagined tonight.”

I swallow, words catching. “You mean sweaty, awkward, glitter-covered?”

“No,” he says, smirking. “You in my arms pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

A sharp ache blooms in my chest. I want to freeze this moment, keep swaying forever but tomorrow looms like a storm on the horizon. I’ll be on a plane back west with my mom, leaving everything and him behind. And Ryan? Military college, regimented, planned out, a life mapped perfectly. Mine? Scattered puzzle pieces I can’t fit together.

“This is our last night,” he whispers, voice low, thick with things left unsaid. “I don’t want to waste it.”

I press into him, letting his warmth anchor me. “Neither do I.”

The music changes faster and louder now pulsing insistently alive but we ignore it, swaying in our slow rhythm. Our bubble shields us until the press of bodies grows tighter, laughter and chatter ringing in my ears. Ryan catches my hand and we weave through the crowd, slipping into a quieter corridor.

The bass hums faintly behind us, a distant echo. Here, the world feels muted, almost ours alone. I press him gently against the wall, and our lips meet. The kiss is urgent, trembling with hope, fear, and reckless desire. His hands thread through my hair; mine clutch the fabric of his jacket. For a moment, nothing else exists.

Reality crashes back too soon. I pull away, laughing shakily. “Ryan… we can’t. What if someone sees us?”

He grins, pulling a small white card from his pocket, a hotel key.

“Then meet me upstairs,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief and something softer beneath it. “Room’s booked just for tonight.”

My heart stutters. “Ryan…”

“You know this is our last chance,” he presses, voice serious, grounded. “Before you move, before I leave. You still want this, right?”

My throat dries. Months of whispered promises, quiet conversations, and tentative plans lead to this one night which is tonight, our prom night. Our first, our memory, and our forever.

“Of course,” I whisper. “We promised each other.”

Relief softens his features. He kisses me again, gentler this time, lingering, memorizing. “I wouldn’t want it with anyone else.”

The words brand themselves into me, searing and unforgettable. He presses the card into my palm. “Ten minutes. Room 312.”

With one lingering look, Ryan slips down the corridor toward the elevators.

I clutch the card, my heartbeat hammering like a drum. My breath catches. My fingers tremble around the edges of the plastic, as if holding it will preserve the perfect night we’ve promised ourselves.

Then a voice cuts through the stillness.

“Aww, would you look at that, Evan Brooks playing house with the golden boy.”

My stomach drops. Fingers dig into my hair as my head is jerked back. Dim corridor light casts jagged shadows, my chest tightening with panic as the face I’ve hoped to avoid comes into view.

Mason Carter.

Of course. Ryan’s shadow, his so-called rival, is a boy who thrives on chaos and cruelty. Mason’s smirk is sharp, predatory, enough to make my skin crawl.

He snatches the card from my grip, twirling it between his fingers. “Well, well. A little love nest for two? How cute.”

“Give it back,” I hiss, panic and fury burning in my chest, cheeks hot.

Mason leans close, breath hot, mocking. “Scared I’ll ruin your little prom-night plan?”

“Don’t you dare!” My voice cracks, cheeks burning. Rage, humiliation, and fear surge at once.

“You’re not special, Evan. Ryan already… You know,” Mason says, venom in each word, “he lost his first to me last summer.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

I force a bitter laugh, tasting panic in the back of my throat. “You’re lying. He’d never touch you.”

Mason’s eyes flicker for a fraction of a second, a crack in his smug mask but the smirk returns, sharper than ever. “Then why did he tell me tonight would be different? Guess you’re not as special as you think.”

I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. “Ryan would never…”

Snap, Mason tears the card in half. Pieces flutter to the floor like cruel confetti.

“Then we’ll see about that.” He pats my cheek mockingly, then walks away, laughter trailing down the corridor like poison.

I crouch slowly, trembling, collecting the shards. My chest aches, hollow and tight. The night that was supposed to be ours is already fracturing.

A cold knot settles in my stomach. A thought rises, relentless and terrifying, What if Mason isn’t lying?