Wrapped in You

The snow was falling in thick, lazy flakes when I pulled into Mom's driveway—well, Mom and Richard's driveway now. The colonial house looked like something from a Hallmark movie, every window glowing warm against the gray December sky, wreaths on every door, and enough Christmas lights to guide Santa's sleigh from three states away.

Richard really went all out. I had to give him that.

I sat in my car for a moment, engine idling, watching my breath fog the window. Twenty-six years old, a junior associate at a Boston law firm, and I was still nervous about family holidays. But it wasn't Mom or Richard that made my stomach clench. It wasn't even the performative cheer I'd have to maintain for the next four days.

It was her.

Chloe.

My stepsister for the past three years, ever since Mom married Richard when I was twenty-three. We'd only met a handful of times—she was finishing her master's at UCLA while I was grinding through law school on the opposite coast. But those brief encounters had been enough.

Enough to know I was in trouble.

She's your stepsister, Avery. Get it together.

The front door opened, and there was Mom, waving enthusiastically in a red sweater with actual jingle bells sewn into it. I laughed despite myself and killed the engine.

"Avery! You made it!" She pulled me into a crushing hug the moment I stepped out. "The roads weren't too bad? I was worried about that storm system—"

"Roads were fine, Mom. I left early."

"Smart girl. Come in, come in! Everyone's here. Chloe flew in this morning."

My heart stuttered. "Great."

The house smelled like cinnamon and pine, with something roasting in the oven. Richard appeared from the kitchen, wearing an apron that said "Kiss the Cook" and looking genuinely happy to see me. He was a good guy, Richard. Made my mom laugh. That counted for a lot.

"Avery! How's the best lawyer in Massachusetts?"

"Not even close to the best, but thanks for the vote of confidence."

He took my bag—insisted on it—and that's when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

And there she was.

Chloe Chen-Morrison had her father's height and her late mother's delicate features. Her black hair was longer than I remembered, falling past her shoulders in soft waves. She was wearing an oversized cream sweater and leggings, her feet bare, and she looked like she'd just woken up from a nap.

She looked beautiful.

"Hey, stranger."

Her voice did something to me. It always did. Low and warm, with a hint of California sun in it.

"Hey yourself. How was the flight?"

"Long. I sat next to a guy who wanted to explain cryptocurrency to me for five hours."

"My condolences."

She smiled, and I felt it in my chest. "Thanks. I'm still recovering. Dad said we're sharing the guest room again—hope that's okay?"

It was not okay. It was the opposite of okay.

"Sure, no problem."

* * *

The guest room had two twin beds, a shared nightstand, and a window overlooking the backyard where Mom's bird feeders swayed in the wind. I remembered it from last Christmas—lying awake at 2 AM, listening to Chloe's soft breathing, torturing myself with thoughts I had no business thinking.

I unpacked quickly while Chloe sat cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone.

"So how's big law treating you? Still billing eighty hours a week?"

"Only seventy-five now. They're going soft."

She snorted. "That's still insane. Do you ever, like, see sunlight?"

"I have a window in my office. I see it passing by."

"You're going to burn out."

"Probably. What about you? Still saving the planet one research paper at a time?"

Chloe was an environmental scientist. Her passion for marine ecosystems was almost contagious—last Christmas she'd talked for an hour about coral bleaching, and I'd hung on every word. Not because I particularly cared about coral (though I did now, thanks to her), but because the way her face lit up when she talked about something she loved was the most captivating thing I'd ever seen.

"Trying to. Got a grant for a new project studying microplastics in the Pacific. I'll be doing field work in Hawaii for six months starting in March."

"Hawaii. Rough life."

"Someone has to sacrifice."

We smiled at each other, and the moment stretched a beat too long. I looked away first, busying myself with folding a sweater that didn't need folding.

"Avery?"

"Yeah?"

"It's good to see you. I mean... I know we don't really know each other

that well. The whole stepsister thing happened when we were already adults. But I always look forward to these visits. Is that weird to say?"

My hands stilled on the sweater. "No. It's not weird. I look forward to them too."

More than you know. Way more than I should.

* * *

December 23rd

Day one was manageable. Family dinner, Christmas movies, Richard's famous eggnog (which was mostly rum with a splash of dairy). I sat on the opposite end of the couch from Chloe and pretended to care about the romantic subplot in Love Actually.

Day two was harder.

Mom recruited us for cookie decorating, which meant standing side by side at the kitchen counter, our elbows occasionally brushing, passing frosting bags back and forth. Chloe was artistic—her snowflakes looked like actual snowflakes. Mine looked like they'd been through a blender.

"Here," she said, moving to stand behind me. "You're holding the bag wrong."

Her hands covered mine, adjusting my grip on the frosting bag. Her body was warm against my back. I could smell her shampoo—something floral, maybe jasmine.

"See? Gentle pressure, and keep your hand steady..."

She guided my hand in a smooth spiral, and a perfect rosette bloomed on the sugar cookie.

"There. Perfect."

"Thanks," I managed. My voice came out strange, and I saw something flicker in her eyes when she stepped back. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition.

I excused myself to check on the fireplace, which definitely did not need checking.

* * *

December 23rd - Late Night

I couldn't sleep. The house was quiet, the snow had stopped, and moonlight was streaming through the gap in the curtains. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, very aware of Chloe six feet away.

"You awake?"

Her whisper cut through the darkness.

"Yeah. Can't sleep."

"Me neither. Jet lag."

Sheets rustled as she shifted. "Want to do something? I saw a hot tub on the deck."

Every alarm bell in my head went off simultaneously.

"Won't it wake them up?"

"Their room's on the other side of the house. They won't hear anything."

Say no. Say you're tired. Say anything except—

"Sure. Why not."

Why not. Why NOT. I could think of about forty reasons why not, and I ignored every single one of them as I pulled on my swimsuit in the bathroom.

The hot tub was steaming in the cold air when we slipped onto the deck. The snow had crusted over, glittering under the moon. Chloe was wearing a black one-piece that made her look like a goddamn Bond girl, and I almost fell off the deck stairs staring at her.

The water was perfect—hot enough to burn at first, then settling into bliss. We sat on opposite sides, jets bubbling around us, stars scattered overhead.

"Can I ask you something personal?"

Here it comes. Whatever it is, I'm not ready for it.

"Go ahead."

"Last Christmas, you left early. Like, really early. Christmas morning you were just... gone. Dad said you had a work emergency, but you're a lawyer. What kind of law emergency happens on Christmas?"

I remembered that morning. Lying in this same room, listening to Chloe breathe, my feelings tangled into knots I couldn't undo. I'd driven back to Boston through empty highways, tears freezing on my cheeks, telling myself it was better this way. Easier to be away from her than to be near her and unable to touch.

"I just... I needed to go."

"Did I do something wrong? Because I've been trying to figure it out for a year, and I keep coming back to that night. Christmas Eve. When we stayed up talking until 4 AM."

I remembered that too. Too well. We'd sat by the dying fire, sharing a bottle of wine, and she'd told me about her mother's death when she was fifteen, and I'd told her about my dad leaving when I was ten, and by the time we finally went to bed, I knew I was falling for her. Not just attraction—though God, there was that—but something deeper. Something real.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then why did you run?"

The water bubbled around us. Steam rose into the freezing air. I could lie. I was a lawyer; I could construct a perfectly reasonable explanation that would satisfy her and let us both go back to pretending.

But I was so tired of pretending.

"Because I was falling for you. And I didn't know how to handle that."

The words hung there, irretrievable. Chloe's expression didn't change—didn't shift into shock or disgust or the awkward pity I'd been dreading. Instead, she moved.

Through the water, across the hot tub, until she was right in front of me, close enough that our knees touched under the surface.

"Falling for me how?"

Her voice was barely audible over the jets.

"You know how."

"Say it anyway."

Her eyes were dark in the moonlight, searching mine. I could still take it back. Laugh it off. Blame the late hour, the eggnog, the intimacy of the setting.

I didn't want to take it back.

"I wanted to kiss you. I still want to kiss you. I think about you way more than a stepsister should think about her stepsister. And I know it's complicated, and probably wrong, and our parents would—"

Chloe kissed me.

Her lips were soft and tasted faintly of the hot chocolate we'd had after dinner. Her hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face up toward hers, and I stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Stopped doing anything except kissing her back.

It was nothing like I'd imagined. It was better. Her mouth moved against mine with a certainty I didn't expect, as if she'd been thinking about this too, planning it, waiting for the right moment.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against mine.

"I've been wanting to do that since last Christmas. Since you sat there telling me about your dad, and I realized you were the most real person I'd ever met."

"Chloe..."

"You ran away, Avery. You left me here thinking I'd done something to push you away. Do you know how much that hurt?"

"I'm sorry. I was scared."

"Are you still scared?"

I looked at her—really looked. At the vulnerability in her eyes, the hope she was trying to hide, the way her hand was trembling slightly where it still rested on my face.

"Terrified."

She smiled. It was the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen.

"Me too. But I'd rather be terrified with you than comfortable without you."

This time, I kissed her. I pulled her onto my lap and kissed her like I'd wanted to for a year, my fingers tangling in her wet hair, her body pressing against mine in the hot water. Her legs wrapped around my waist, and I felt every point where we connected—thighs, hips, chests, lips.

"We should go inside," she breathed against my mouth.

"We should."

Neither

of us moved. Her hips rolled against me, and I gasped into her neck, my hands sliding down her back to grip her waist.

"Avery. Inside. Now. Before I do something our parents would definitely hear."

We stumbled out of the hot tub, grabbing robes, dripping water across the deck. The cold air was a shock after the hot tub, and we ran for the door, barely containing our laughter.

The guest room was dark when we reached it. Chloe locked the door—when did that become an option?—and turned to face me.

In the moonlight streaming through the window, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders, water droplets glittering on her collarbone, she looked like something out of a dream. My dream. The one I'd been having for a year.

"I need you to be sure," she said. "Because if we do this, I'm not going to be able to pretend it didn't happen. I'm not built that way."

"Neither am I."

"And our parents—"

"We'll figure it out."

"And you won't run again?"

I crossed the room to her. Took her face in my hands. Looked into her eyes.

"I spent a year running from this. From you. I'm done running."

She melted into me, and we kissed again—slower this time, deeper. Her fingers found the tie of my robe and pulled. The fabric fell away, and her hands were on my swimsuit, on the straps, sliding them down my shoulders.

"Wait." I caught her wrists. "Let me look at you first."

I undressed her slowly, peeling the wet one-piece down her body inch by inch. She was gorgeous—slim and strong, with small breasts that fit perfectly in my palms when I cupped them. Her nipples hardened under my thumbs, and she shivered.

"You're staring."

"You're worth staring at."

"Smooth talker."

"It's not a line."

I kissed her collarbone, her shoulder, the curve of her neck. She tilted her head back, giving me access, and I took it—trailing my mouth down to her chest, circling one nipple with my tongue while my hand teased the other.

"Oh god... Avery..."

Her fingers dug into my shoulders as I guided her backward to one of the twin beds. She sat on the edge, and I knelt between her thighs, looking up at her.

"Tell me what you want."

"You. I want you."

"You have me. What do you want me to do?"

She blushed—I could see it even in the dim light. "I want... I want your mouth. Please."

I kissed the inside of her thigh, and she inhaled sharply. Then the other thigh. Then higher, closer, until my breath was warm against her center.

She was wet—not from the hot tub, but from wanting this. Wanting me. The realization made my head spin.

I tasted her slowly, savoring every whimper and gasp. She was sweet and musky and absolutely intoxicating. Her hand found the back of my head, fingers threading through my damp hair, guiding me where she needed me.

"There... right there... don't stop..."

I didn't stop. I sucked her clit gently while sliding two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot that made her back arch off the bed. Her thighs trembled around my ears, and her breathing went ragged.

"Avery... I'm going to... I can't..."

She came with my name on her lips, her whole body shaking, her hand pressing my mouth harder against her as she rode out the waves. I worked her through it, gentling my touch as she came down, until she was panting and laughing softly.

"Holy shit."

"Good?"

"Get up here."

She pulled me up onto the bed, rolling us so she was on top. Her thigh pressed between my legs, and I moaned—I was so worked up that even that small pressure felt electric.

"Your turn."

She kissed down my body with deliberate slowness, stopping to worship my breasts, my stomach, my hipbones. By the time her mouth reached where I needed it, I was already trembling.

And then she was touching me, tasting me, and I forgot how to think.

Her tongue was magic—there was no other word for it. She found every sensitive spot, catalogued every response, adjusted her rhythm to keep me right on the edge without letting me fall. When I finally came, it was like a wave breaking, pleasure crashing through me in pulses that left me boneless.

She crawled up to lie beside me, both of us breathless, both of us grinning like idiots.

"That was..."

"Yeah."

"We should have done this last year."

"Definitely. Think of all the time we wasted."

I laughed and pulled her closer. She nestled against my shoulder, her leg hooking over mine, her hand drawing lazy patterns on my stomach.

"What are we going to tell them?"

"I have no idea. 'Merry Christmas, your daughters are sleeping together' doesn't really have the right ring to it."

"Step-daughters."

"Right. Because that makes it so much better."

She was quiet for a moment. "Do you regret this?"

"No. Not even a little. Do you?"

"I've wanted this for so long that I forgot what regret feels like."

I kissed the top of her head. Outside, snow was starting to fall again, soft flakes drifting past the window. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. There would be presents to wrap and carols to sing and questions to dodge. But right now, in this moment, everything was perfect.

"Chloe?"

"Mm?"

"I'm not running this year."

She tilted her head up to look at me, her smile soft and sleepy and full of promise.

"Good. Because I'd chase you."

* * *

Christmas Eve Morning

We woke tangled together in a twin bed that was definitely not designed for two people. My arm was numb, and there was a crick in my neck, and I had never been more comfortable in my life.

Chloe's eyes fluttered open, and for a moment she looked confused—then a slow smile spread across her face.

"Hi."

"Hi yourself."

"So that really happened."

"Several times."

She laughed and kissed me—morning breath and all. It was gross and wonderful.

"We should shower. Separately. And go down for breakfast like normal human beings who definitely did not spend last night—"

A knock on the door froze us both.

"Girls? Breakfast in ten minutes!"

Richard's voice. We stared at each other in horror.

"Coming!" I called, my voice only cracking slightly.

Footsteps retreated down the hall. Chloe dissolved into silent giggles, her face buried in my shoulder.

"'Coming,'" she wheezed. "Really?"

"Shut up. I panicked."

"Your face. Oh my god."

I tickled her

ribs in retaliation, and she shrieked, which led to shushing, which led to kissing, which led to being very late for breakfast.

* * *

Breakfast was excruciating. I couldn't look at Chloe without blushing, which meant I couldn't look at her at all, which was suspicious in its own right. Mom kept asking if I was feeling okay, and Richard made jokes about us burning the midnight oil.

If only he knew.

Chloe, infuriatingly, was the picture of composure. She ate her pancakes and made conversation and acted like she hadn't been between my thighs six hours ago. The only tell was her foot, which kept finding mine under the table and pressing against it.

After breakfast, Mom conscripted us for present wrapping duty while she and Richard handled the Christmas Eve ham. We sat in the guest room surrounded by rolls of paper and ribbon, and the moment the door closed, Chloe's hand was on my thigh.

"You were squirming all through breakfast."

"I don't know how you were so calm."

"Practice. I spent a year pretending I didn't want to jump you every time we were in the same room."

"A year? You wanted this for a year?"

"Since the first Christmas. You walked in wearing that ridiculous reindeer sweater, and I thought, 'Oh no. Oh no no no.'"

I laughed. "That sweater is a classic."

"That sweater is a crime against fashion, and I was still attracted to you in it. That's how I knew I was in trouble."

I kissed her, quick and sweet. "We should actually wrap these presents."

"Or..." Her hand slid higher on my thigh.

"Chloe."

"Fine. Presents first. But tonight..."

"Tonight."

* * *

Christmas Eve dinner was Richard's tour de force—ham glazed with honey and bourbon, roasted vegetables, homemade bread that made the whole house smell like heaven. We ate too much and drank more wine than was probably wise, and at some point, someone suggested playing charades.

It was ridiculous. It was wonderful. It felt like family.

When Chloe and I ended up on the same team, our ability to guess each other's clues bordered on supernatural. Mom accused us of cheating. Richard said it was just "sister intuition."

Chloe and I carefully did not look at each other.

By midnight, the house was quiet. Our parents had retired to bed, the fire had burned low, and Chloe and I were alone in the living room, lying on the floor looking at the Christmas tree lights.

"I want to tell them."

I turned my head to look at her. "What?"

"Tomorrow. I want to tell them about us."

"On Christmas?"

"Is there a better day to tell your parents you're in love with your stepsister?"

My heart stuttered. "In love?"

She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at me with an expression that was half terrified, half defiant.

"I love you, Avery. I probably loved you before I even knew it. And I don't want to hide that. Not from them, not from anyone."

I sat up, pulling her into my arms. "I love you too. I've loved you since that night by the fire, when you cried about your mom and I wanted to hold you forever."

"You did hold me."

"Not like this."

I kissed her under the Christmas tree lights, the multicolored glow playing across our skin. Tomorrow we'd have a hard conversation. Our parents might be confused, might be upset, might need time to adjust. But they loved us. Both of us. And that love was bigger than any conventional idea of what family should look like.

"Let's go to bed."

"Sleep?"

"Eventually."

She laughed and let me pull her to her feet. Hand in hand, we climbed the stairs to our room—our room, for however long we wanted it to be.

* * *

Christmas Morning

I woke to Chloe's fingers tracing my face, her eyes warm and sleepy in the gray morning light.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas."

"Best present ever?"

I kissed her softly. "Best present ever."

Downstairs, we could hear the coffee maker gurgling and Richard's terrible singing. In an hour, we'd go down and open presents and drink too much coffee and have a conversation that would change everything.

But for now, in this quiet moment between night and day, between secret and truth, between what we were and what we were about to become—

For now, there was just this. Her and me. Us.

It was enough.

It was everything.