Abigail's Healing Hands Slip Astray

I limped into the house after the soccer game, my thigh throbbing like a drumbeat from that brutal tackle. The living room was bathed in the soft golden light of late afternoon, filtering through the sheer curtains over the bay window. Our cozy suburban home in Ottawa felt like a sanctuary, with its plush sectional sofa, scattered throw pillows in earthy tones, and the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser on the coffee table. Abigail, my step-mom, was there in an instant, her lilac hair woven into a neat fishtail braid that swayed gently as she rushed over. At 20, she was young for the role, but her kind, empathetic nature made her perfect—always the one to patch us up, listen without judgment. She was dressed simply for the weekend: a fitted white tank top that hugged her petite frame, outlining her medium bust subtly, paired with soft gray yoga pants that clung to her narrow hips and toned legs. Her honey skin glowed under the light, hazel eyes wide with concern as she guided me to the sofa. 'Ethan, oh honey, that looks bad. Sit down, let me take care of you,' she said, her voice a soothing melody laced with that gentle Canadian lilt. I winced as I eased onto the cushions, feeling the cool leather against my back. She knelt before me, her oval face tilted up, full lips parted in worry. Her hands, small but strong from yoga, hovered over my injured thigh. There was something about Abigail that always drew me in—her empathy wasn't just words; it was in the way she leaned close, her braid brushing my knee, her breath warm. Mark, her husband and my dad, was away on a business trip, leaving the house quiet except for the distant hum of...