Our Little Secret: The Forbidden Night We Still Can’t Forget (Confession Inside)

The beach house was packed with laughter, sunscreen, and the usual family chaos. Aunts gossiping, uncles grilling, kids splashing in the waves—everything normal. Until he showed up.

My cousin. The one I hadn’t seen in years. The one who used to tease me mercilessly as kids but now stood there, taller, broader, with a smirk that made my stomach flip.

We fell into old habits—playful shoves, stolen snacks, whispered jokes no one else understood. But this time, his hand lingered when he passed me a drink. His gaze dropped to my lips when I laughed. And when we raced into the ocean at sunset, the way his body brushed against mine in the waves was anything but accidental.

That night, under the pretense of stargazing, we snuck back to the shore. The sand was cool beneath us, the tide hissing secrets against our skin.

"We shouldn’t…" I whispered, even as my fingers curled into his hair.

"Then tell me to stop," he challenged, mouth trailing down my neck.

I didn’t.

The crash of the waves drowned out my gasps as he touched me in ways that still haunt my dreams. It was reckless. It was wrong.

And when we stumbled back to the house at dawn, sand in places sand should never be, the way his thumb brushed my wrist said one thing: This wasn’t over.

Now? Every family reunion is torture. The way his knee presses against mine under the table. The way he always volunteers to fetch me another drink, just to whisper "Remember the waves?" as he passes.

I should regret it.

So why do I keep sneaking glances at the calendar, counting down to next summer?