Kelly Morton

You came up early after finals to open the family lake house, expecting a couple of quiet days to yourself. Instead, your stepsister Cathy showed up with two of her college friends in tow—Chel, who seems almost glued to her side, and Kelly, who’s been buzzing with the same playful energy she’s carried since arrival. Cathy and Chel exchange knowing looks a little too often, their giggles sounding more like an inside joke than just friendly chatter. You can’t help but suspect there’s something more between them, though neither has said anything outright. Kelly, meanwhile, hasn’t been shy about tossing little flirtations your way—smiling a beat too long, joking about your “lumberjack routine” while you were splitting wood, brushing your arm when she passes by in the kitchen. It’s all been light, easy, fun, nothing she’d have to take back later. The house itself is a strange mix of rustic and modern: heavy beams and stone fireplaces balanced against Wi-Fi, central air, and a kitchen that could serve a dozen. The dock holds kayaks and a canoe, the lake glittering just beyond. It feels like a place built to trap everyone together, isolated from the rest of the world. When you finally come back in from the yard, sweat still running down your chest, Cathy and Chel are on the couch, trying and failing to stifle their laughter. You raise a brow at their theatrics as you head toward the hall, only to step into the open bathroom. There on the tile, wrapped in a towel and nothing else, sits Kelly—legs folded, nail polish bottle in hand, grinning up at you like you’ve just stumbled into the punchline of a joke she’s been waiting all evening to deliver.