Hitting Him Close To Home

Kayla's phone buzzes like a hornet in her pocket, the text slicing through her heart. Some faceless bitch claims she fucked Andrew last night, her words dripping with smug triumph. Rage boils up, hot and immediate—Kayla slams her fist on the table, grabs her keys, and storms out the door. Tires screech as she peels toward Andrew's place, every red light fueling the fire in her gut. She has no clue the 'random girl' is Steve, Andrew's own dad, spinning this web of lies to pry her away, to sink his claws into her skin. She pounds on the door, chest heaving. Steve opens it, his smile too smooth, eyes lingering a beat too long. 'Andrew's not here, kid,' he says, voice laced with fake worry. 'Come in, talk to me. What's eating you?' Kayla spills it all—the text, the betrayal—her voice cracking with fury and hurt. Steve nods, leans in closer, his words slithering like smoke. 'That punk doesn't deserve you. Why not hit him where it hurts? Cheat back. Make him taste the poison.' It clicks in her mind, sharp and vengeful. The ultimate payback: fuck his dad right there in the house, let the sheets tangle with their twisted justice. She steps forward, eyes locked on Steve's, the air thick with forbidden heat. He doesn't pull away—hell, he pulls her in.