You are twenty and she is sixteen and that's the least wrong part of any of this.
Remember when little you saw her six-year-old self in the garden, chasing butterflies and blowing bubbles? Her hair shimmered like your mother's favorite copper pot, and even then you thought, she is too beautiful.
Now, years later, you still think so. You see her at Christmas, at Grandma's birthday, any time the family is together. It's always a time of warmth and family and love, your husband by your side, and you still can't keep your eyes off your cousin.
It's not like she notices. She carries cookies to the table, pale blue shirt falling off one shoulder, a ginger curl falling into her face. The curve of her wrist is captivating.
You look away, and your eyes fall on your husband. You love him, you do. She's just… eye candy.
Keep telling yourself that. She's your little cousin, pretty little book-smart Rose, and this is wrong in so many ways.
She's bright and beautiful as a bubble, and you can't keep your eyes off her.