Simon had always called him "Dad."
In his earliest memories, Edward Reyes—Elena's father—had been the one tucking him in at night, showing him how to ride a bike, scolding him when he got caught lying about homework. The man had never treated him differently, not once. Not even when he slipped up and called Elena "his real daughter" at that family gathering when Simon was nine.
He remembered the silence that followed. The way his mother's face tightened. The way Elena had quickly wrapped an arm around him and joked, "Well, he's more annoying than your real son."
Back then, it had meant nothing.
But everything changed when he turned twelve.
It was a quiet night, and his mother had just come back from a double shift. She looked tired—her scrubs wrinkled, her hands trembling slightly as she made tea in the kitchen.
"Simon," she'd said gently, "can we talk for a minute?"
He'd known it was serious. She never used that tone unless it was something big.
They sat on the worn couch together. He remembered how cold it was outside, how warm the living room felt. How Elena had been at a sleepover and the apartment was quieter than usual.
"I want to tell you something about your father," she had said.
Simon had blinked. "What about Dad?"
Her lips pressed into a tight line.
"No, sweetheart. I mean your biological father."
And that's when everything tilted sideways.
He had stared at her in disbelief.
"What are you talking about?"
She had taken a deep breath. "Edward married me when you were three. Your real father—his name was Anthony Carter—died in a car accident when you were just two."
"I don't remember him," Simon had said quietly.
"I know. I didn't want to confuse you when you were little. And Edward loved you like his own. Still does. But I couldn't keep it from you forever."
Simon had sat there stunned, the world spinning. "So… Elena's not really my sister?"
"Not by blood," his mom had said. "You were both raised together, but you don't share any parents."
He hadn't known what to say.
That night, he stared at the ceiling until sunrise, a quiet storm building in his chest.
Everything had changed.
And yet… somehow, nothing had.
Years later, the truth still echoed in Simon's mind.
Especially now.
Especially after what had happened between him and Elena.
He thought about that conversation often—not because he was angry at his mother for hiding the truth, but because it changed the context of everything. It didn't erase the memories. The childhood sleepovers. The shared dinners. The holiday photos.
But it gave those memories a new, confusing color.
Because back then, he had seen Elena as family.
And now?
Now he couldn't stop thinking about her lips.
The evening after their second kiss was quiet. They didn't speak much during dinner. Elena barely touched her plate. Simon excused himself early, claiming he had a project to finish.
But the tension in the air was different now.
Not anxious.
Expectant.
Like something had already been set in motion—and neither of them could pretend otherwise.
Around midnight, a quiet knock came at Simon's door.
He was already awake.
Elena stepped inside, barefoot, wearing a gray hoodie that hung past her waist. Her hair was damp. She must've just come out of the shower. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from heat or nerves, he couldn't tell.
She stood by the door, twisting her fingers together.
"I've been thinking," she said softly.
Simon sat up in bed.
"I know I told you we should stop," she continued, "but I keep running from something I've already stepped into. And it's not fair. Not to you. Not to me."
He swallowed hard. "What do you want then?"
She met his eyes.
"I want to stop pretending like it didn't happen."
Simon's heart beat faster.
"Elena—"
"I know we weren't raised like strangers. I know it feels messed up. But we're not blood. We're not even legally related anymore—Dad and Mom separated last year. And still, I keep telling myself I shouldn't feel this way. But I do."
She took a step closer.
"I've felt it for a long time, Simon. I just buried it under everything else."
He rose slowly, the space between them shrinking.
"I thought it was just me," he said.
"It wasn't."
Then, quietly, she said, "If we keep going, everything changes. There's no turning back after this."
He reached for her hand.
"Then let it change."
And in that moment, neither of them cared about names. Or labels. Or the past.
All they knew was what they were feeling now.
And what they both wanted.