#stepdad!shane

He didn’t arrive with declarations or empty promises. He just… folded himself into the rhythm of the place. Mornings smelled like strong coffee and toast. Evenings came with quiet routines—greasing squeaky hinges, changing lightbulbs, tightening screws on things that rattled. He didn’t ask for praise. He didn’t even announce what he was doing, he just noticed what needed doing and handled it.

And then there was the way he treated you.

Not like a kid. Not like an obligation. He remembered the little things—the way you hated the radio talk show host on the local channel, the way you liked your eggs for breakfast, that sometimes you just needed a minute to get things off your chest when you got home from a bad day.

When your mom would snap too sharply or come home looking to pick a fight, Shane would intervene with a steady voice and an even expression, “hey, cmon now, y’know that ain’t fair.” As if defending you was instinctive.

That alone would’ve been enough to soften you.

Unfortunately, he was also devastatingly handsome in a way that snuck up on you. Nothing flashy. Not even polished. Just broad shoulders and rough, capable hands and a smile that felt earned instead of practiced. His voice—low, drawling, unhurried—had a way of wrapping around words like he was taking care with them, like he knew the effect they had.

From the very beginning, there had been a current between you. Not sparks. Not fireworks. Something slower and more dangerous. A gravity you couldn’t quite explain. Glances that lingered a fraction longer than they should. The way his attention found you in a room without any effort. Inside jokes meant just for you two. A sense that he was always very… aware of you.

And you were aware of him right back.

Which was why you’d done the sensible thing and started dating a man who was aggressively unremarkable.

Evan was… fine. Evan was harmless. Evan was what you were supposed to want. He texted you good morning and good night every day. He showed up when he said he would. He thought romance was consistency and sex was something you completed rather than participated in. His idea of being spontaneous was getting Panda Express last Friday instead of the usual pizza.

You told yourself that was enough. You told yourself that passion had to settle down eventually. This was just part of growing up and you’d get over it.

But there were only so many nights you could lay there staring at the ceiling, your body pursed for a release with nowhere for it to go. Only so many you could sit awake at night thinking about how you felt so lonely despite the man sharing your bed.

That was when you decided to end it. Well, to make him end it. You hated breaking up with people. You hated how the guy would always make you out to be some kind of evil psychopath, all the while leaving out the many ways he fell short leading up to the split. So you’d put that burden on Evan, it was the least he could do.

It didn’t need to be dramatic or cruel, you just wanted him to lose interest. Simple enough, right?

So you built a plan.

Step one: stop being appealing.

No more effort.

No more flirting.

No more carefully chosen little sets with meticulously paired accessories. Oh no, Evan was getting loooooow maintenance. Messy, even.

The main issue you’re facing now is that you don’t own a single thing that would fit that category. This is glaringly clear as your hot-pink tracksuit clad reflection stares back at you from your full body mirror and, damn, does it fit you well. You almost hate to push your fashion sense aside, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

This was how you end up standing outside your mom and Shane’s bedroom. The door was ajar and there sat Shane, folding your mom’s laundry, because of course he was folding her laundry. He’s perfect. You bit the inside of your cheek as you knocked on the door frame.

His eyes lifted to meet yours almost immediately, brow lifting in mild surprise. “Hey, darlin’. Everything alright?”

“Oh yeah, toooootally great,” you said brightly, forcing a reassuring smile to your lips. “I just need to ask an itty bitty favor. Can I borrow something?”

He set the sweater in his hands down on the comforter, standing from the bed. “‘Course you can. Whatcha need?”

“One of your sweatshirts.”

The pause was subtle—but it was there.

“…Mine? You sure you don’t want one of your mom’s cardigans or something?”

“Noooo, I definitely think I need yours,” you nodded. “The biggest one you have, if possible. Something that looks like it’s been through a war. OH- that police academy one you wore the other day, maybe? With the stains?” You tried to tamp down on the giddiness you were feeling at the thought of how frumpy you’re going look. This was going to be great.

Shane laughed under his breath. “That thing’s gonna swallow you, darlin’.”

“I know, it’s perfect.”

He disappeared into the closet and came back with a hoodie that looked soft and worn and unmistakably his. When he handed it over, your fingers brushed the soft, piling material. He cleared his throat.

“I hate to break it to ya, kid, but that things nowhere near fitting you.” He was clearly very amused with this whole occurrence.

“Exactly, that’s the point.” You tugged it on right there, fabric sliding down your arms, sleeves hiding your hands, hem grazing the hem of your shorts on your thighs. It felt absurd and comfortable and, strangely, a little intimate.

Shane stared.

Not rudely, but openly. Just long enough to tell you something wasn’t lining up in his head.

“And you’re plannin’ on wearin’ that out the house?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Shane knew you well enough by now to have picked up on the fact that you never left the house looking short of perfect.

“Sure am,” you chirped excitedly, unable to help yourself from primping in the mirror against the far wall.

“…Why? You going to some kind of themed party?”

And, for some reason, you didn’t lie.

You laughed first—too fast, too light—like maybe if you said it casually enough it wouldn’t sound insane. “Okay, well—this is going to sound terrible, but I’m kind of trying to get my boyfriend to break up with me.”

That earned you a real laugh—startled, loud, completely unguarded.

“You’re kiddin’.”

“I wish,” you blurted, and then it was like the dam broke and you couldn’t stop the words pouring from your mouth. “He’s just—Shane, he’s so boring. And I feel awful saying that, because he’s technically nice, but it’s the kind of nice where there’s nothing underneath it? Like beige walls. Or unseasoned chicken. And every time we hang out I feel like I’m doing homework instead of… I don’t know, living my life?”

You waved a hand, already spiraling. “And I keep telling myself that this is what being an adult is supposed to be like, right? Stable, predictable, whatever—but I’m just sitting there thinking, is this it? Is this what I’m signing up for forever? Because that feels like a trap.”

You sucked in a breath, face warm now.

“And—oh god—this is where it gets really tragic,” you rushed on. “He’s terrible in bed. Like not even awkward-because-he-cares terrible. Just… bad. Like he thinks effort is optional. Like he pats my hip after like he’s done a good job and I’m lying there staring at the ceiling wondering if I’ll have to fake a headache for the rest of my life.”

Shane turned his head away, coughing into his hand to cover the laugh that bubbled up.

“Alright,” he said, laughing harder despite himself. “That’s enough. Way more than I needed.”

You clamped your mouth shut, mortified, tugging the sweatshirt sleeves over your hands. “Sorry—sorry. I don’t know why I’m talking so much. I’m just so tired of feeling like I’m silly for wanting more.”

“So anyway,” you continued, lighter and matter-of-fact, “I figured if I stopped dressing like myself, he’d finally lose interest and break up with me.”

Shane leaned back against the wall, arms folding, gaze drifting over you again. Slower this time. Warmer. Locked in fully on you.

“Sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head, “that ain’t how men work.”

Your eyebrows furrowed together, “it’s not?”

“Nope.” His mouth tilted into a half-smile. “A man loves seein’ his woman in his clothes.”

Your stomach flipped, sharp and sudden.

“And,” he added, casual as could be, “he really hates seein’ her in someone else’s. Makes him territorial.”

“Oh,” you said slowly, glancing down at the sleeves pooling over your hands, “territorial is bad?”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh, eyes still on you. “Sweetheart,” he said, “wearing another man’s clothes doesn’t make you less appealing. It makes a man notice you more.”

You looked back up at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he replied, voice easy but unmistakably warm, “it makes a guy picture things. Wonder things. Start thinkin’ about you wearin’ his stuff instead. Maybe even start imaging you with nothing on at all.”

Your breath caught—just a little.

“Oh,” you said again, trying for casual and not quite landing it. “So this isn’t reading as ‘unattractive.’”

“No, ma’am,” he said softly. “Not even close.”

You tugged at the cuff again, suddenly very aware of how familiar the fabric felt. “Guess I picked the wrong strategy.”

Shane’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Guess you did.”

“Okay, well, I’ll… rethink things, I guess.” You backed away before either of you could say something worse, smile soft but pulse skittering. “Mind if I keep the sweatshirt for the day anyway?”

Shane didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. “Be my guest, darlin’.”

Something warm flickered low in your chest. You turned and walked down the hall.

Behind you, Shane exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, voice barely audible—

“Lord help me.”

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The girl he wasn’t supposed to want, not in a million years. The one who was meant to be his stepdaughter, someone he should’ve kept at arm’s length. Instead, you’re the one he comes home to, the one spread out beneath him at night, trembling and sweet, begging him not to stop. He knows how wrong it looks from the outside—but it doesn’t matter. He’s already too far gone.

Only Shane knows what you sound like when you’re whimpering into his chest, nails dragging down his back. Only he knows how warm and tight you get when you’re spread out beneath him, begging him to go deeper, harder. Only he’s the one who fucks you until your voice breaks and you’re sobbing his name

Rick doesn’t know the way you arch for him. Doesn’t know the way you come apart on his cock. Nobody else knows. Nobody else will.

So when it happens again—Rick brushing by you in the narrow hallway, his hand skating along the small of your back as he squeezes past—Shane’s patience snaps. He’s on you before Rick’s even two steps away, a big hand closing around your waist, dragging you flush against him. His other hand slides low, fingers splaying over your hip like a brand.

Rick glances back just long enough to see Shane’s hand there—firm, possessive, leaving no doubt—and clears his throat, muttering something about needing to check on Carl. He disappears fast.

You giggle softly, tilting your head back toward Shane, your voice light, teasing. “Jealous much?” you murmur, eyes sparkling. You know exactly what he’s doing, and you can’t help but smile at it. “He’s just being polite, Shane.”

Shane presses in close, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak.

“Sweetheart,” he croons, slow and dangerous, “there ain’t nothin’ polite about the way he stares at you. Man looks at you like he’s undressin’ you right there in front of god and everybody.” His grip tightens on your hip, keeping you pinned. “And I can’t fuckin’ stand it.”

You laugh again, soft and sweet, brushing your hand up his arm. “You’re crazy,” you whisper, playful, though your pulse gives you away. “But I like knowing you’ll remind me who I belong to.”

He groans low, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and rough all at once. “Damn right, I will. Rick can stare holes through you, Carl can blush ‘til his face permanently turns red—but they’ll never know you. They’ll never touch you. That’s for me, and me alone.”

You whimper softly, thighs squeezing together, but your voice is still playful, warm. “Mhm. Only yours, Shane. Always.”

That does him in. He smirks, biting lightly at your earlobe.

“Should make you show him,” he mutters darkly. “Should sit you in my lap right in front of him. Let him watch me spread you open, let him see who you belong to. He wouldn’t be able to look at you the same way again.”

Your cheeks burn, but you giggle against his jaw, kissing him quickly, sweetly. “You’re awful,” you whisper, though your body trembles against him. “And I’d still let you.”

His laugh is rough, disbelieving, and he tilts your chin up, making you meet his eyes.

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” he says, softer now but no less intense. “I’d be crazy to ever let another man within 5ft of you, ‘specially not with you lookin’ all pretty like you do.”

He kisses you hard then, swallowing your gasp, his hand heavy on your ass, holding you against the hard line of him. When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, your breath shaky, and your smile is dizzy-sweet.

And just like that, his jealousy burns into satisfaction. Because Rick can look, Carl can dream—but you’re here. With Shane. Sweet, playful, teasing, but his. The girl he should’ve never touched, but couldn’t let go of now if he tried.

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Your face warms instantly—which is stupid, because it’s just Shane. “You’re just saying that.”

“Nah,” he says, steady as anything, and he’s smiling, but there’s no joke in his eyes. “You look better than a million bucks tonight. If he couldn’t see that, he’s blind.”

He says it like it’s a plain fact, like there’s nothing unusual about your stepdad telling you that, about the way his thumb lingers against your skin for just a moment longer than necessary before falling away. You tell yourself it’s just him cheering you up. Shane’s always been hands-on, always known how to make people feel better.

Then he hooks a hand at your waist and tugs you forward, down into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is for him. He’s warm and solid beneath you, smelling faintly of his soap and the detergent your mom has always used, one arm sliding snug around your back while the other rests heavy on your thigh.

“Much better, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you can feel the vibration of it in your ribs.

Your laugh comes out breathy. “This is ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says easily, “but you’re tense, honey.” His hand squeezes lightly above your knee, thumb pressing into the muscle just enough to make you shift. “Let me help you loosen up.”

It’s not like he’s doing anything, not really—just sitting there with you, blanket pulled over your legs. His palm drifts up under the edge of it, warm and steady against your skin, sliding a little higher under the pretense of tucking the fabric closer around you.

“You’re too nice to me,” you say, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

“That’s ’cause you deserve it,” he replies without hesitation. His thumb starts tracing slow, idle circles on the inside of your knee, each pass a little closer to the soft skin above it. “And I always take care of my girls.”

You know he means your mom, the house, the whole picture. But right now, the way he’s holding you, it feels like he just means you. Which is fine. It’s just Shane being Shane. He’s always been touchy, always known how to make you feel seen, even if that means keeping you right there on his lap, arm tight around your waist, like he doesn’t plan on letting you up any time soon.

The TV drones on in the background, the game long since forgotten. His hand never really stops moving—small, absent-minded touches that feel like comfort if you don’t think too hard about them.

And you don’t.

You’re not going to make it weird.

Not when it feels this good to be right where you are.

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