Almost Identical

Mandy's on the couch, eyes all red and puffy, tissues everywhere, mascara running. That letter from her mom sits open on the table—turns out Aaron isn't her real brother, he's fostered, and the whole damn story of their hook-ups landed him in jail. Phone rings. She wipes her face, picks up. A recording plays: "This is a collect call from LA County Correctional Facility. You have a call from Aaron." She hesitates, then hits 1. Aaron's voice jumps right in, cocky as hell. "Sis, it's me. Getting out tomorrow and heading straight for you. Can't wait to fuck my hot little sister again." She mashes the phone to her chest, breathes out, "I can't wait to fuck my brother either." Cut to Aaron riding in a taxi, one paper bag with all his shit beside him. He's clutching a photo of Mandy, staring out the window. Twenty-four months without touching her. Feels like forever. Inside the house, Mandy paces with the letter, trying to decide whether to hide it or leave it out. Doorbell goes. She shoves the paper in her back pocket and opens up. Aaron storms in, slams her against the wall, mouth on hers. Before she gets a word out, he yanks her jean skirt down, hungry for that pussy. She doesn't fight it, just moans for him to taste her. He dives in for a few minutes, then comes up panting, asks for a shower. Post-shower, both naked, standing at the mirror. Mandy brushes her hair while Aaron holds her close, talking about how much they look alike, like they're practically twins. She keeps glancing at his reflection, stomach twisting. The letter's burning a hole in her pocket. She tries to bring it up, but he waves it off, drags her into the bedroom for round two. Aaron takes charge the second they hit the sheets. He fucks her like he's been holding it in for two years—switching between deep, slow strokes and rough, punishing thrusts. Every time he talks about their past, she steers the conversation somewhere else, but he keeps going, hungry for every inch of her, making up for every night behind bars.