He smiled, the jerk, like he could read every inappropriate thought running through my head. “There you are. Finally awake.” He had the audacity to ruffle my hair like I was a particularly cute puppy, rather than a grown man with a functioning libido. His fingers lingered, brushing against the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, sending shivers cascading down my spine. “Morning, Lan. Did dreamland treat you well?”
My cheek flushed hotter than July in Death Valley. Sure, let’s share that I fantasized about you last night, and by fantasized,I mean imagining your hands all over me, pushing me against walls, those perfect lips trailing down my neck, and—God—the things I wanted you to do to me on every flat surface in this house. The memory of last night’s dream—vivid and explicit—flashed through my mind, and I had to shift subtly to hide the evidence of just how well dreamland had treated me.
I pushed his hand away, trying not to betray the fact that I had been dreaming of doing unspeakably naughty things to him. Things that would make our brotherly morning routine really, really awkward if he knew half of what went through my head when he looked at me like that. My fingers brushed against his wrist in the process, and the brief contact with his skin sent a jolt through me that was embarrassingly intense.
“It’s okay. Sleep is sleep,” I brushed it off, my voice as dry as my wit, though my racing pulse told a different story. I could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch on my skin, like an imprint that refused to fade.
“You seem moody today,” he observed, cocking that damn head to the side, a gesture that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow was. A strand of dark hair fell across his forehead, and I had to physically restrain myself from reaching out to brush it back.
Using more force than I’d like to admit, considering the difference in our sizes, I nudged him off my bed. His constant parade of girlfriends should have clued him in on the appeal of his six-foot-three athletic build and the smile that could launch a thousand ships. But me? I barely scraped by at five foot six. No wonder I was dubbedcute—apparently the universal descriptor for adults the size of hobbits. The contrast between us was never more apparent than when he stood to his full height, towering over me like some dark, amber-eyed god.
In the Sinclair household, we were all assigned our roles like some twisted genetic beauty pageant. Jaxson wasthe gorgeousone—walking proof that God played favorites, with his perfect face and body that belonged on billboards, not making breakfast in our cramped kitchen. Colt wasbroodingly handsome—he’d perfected that moody romance novel hero stare down to an art form, all sharp cheekbones and intense eyes that could cut glass. Wei wasthe hot Asian one, a title he wore like a crown while the rest of us rolled our eyes, though no one could deny he had the smoldering looks to back it up. Xander wasstunning, which felt like someone had flipped through a thesaurus and picked the first fancy word they found, but with his golden-blond hair and model-worthy features, it wasn’t far off. Nico wasthe attractive one, which sounded like what you say when you’ve run out of compliments but still need to be nice, though his boyish charm had broken plenty of hearts.
And me? I was perpetuallycute—a word that made me want to gag every time they used it. Being barely five foot six apparently relegated you to the realm of puppies and plushies, no matter how desperately you wanted to be taken seriously. At this point, I was pretty sure my growth spurt had gotten lost in the mail along with my dignity. Standing next to Jaxson just emphasized every inch of difference between us, every reason why my feelings were hopeless.
As Jaxson stood up, I seized the opportunity, trying to ignore how the morning light streaming through my window caught on his profile, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. “I’m getting ready, so if you’d be so kind as to vanish?” My room suddenly felt impossibly small with him in it, like all the oxygen had been replaced with his presence.
“I got it, I got it,” he conceded, but not before throwing one last grin over his shoulder that made my heart do that stupid flutter thing again. “You want a ride to work?”
I shook my head vigorously, perhaps too quickly. “No. I’ve got a bike and I’m not five, despite appearances. I can take careof myself, funnily enough.” I wasn’t subtle in my frustration, though it was directed more at my own weakness than at his offer. Being trapped in a car with him, breathing in his scent, our shoulders occasionally brushing—no thank you. I’d rather brave the summer heat on my bike than subject myself to that particular brand of torture.
Jaxson, bless his ever-pampering soul, chuckled, the sound wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “Old habits die hard, don’t they?” The way he ruffled my hair one last time before heading to the door made me want to purr like a cat and die of shame simultaneously. His fingers lingered just a moment too long, trailing down to the nape of my neck before he finally pulled away, leaving my skin tingling in their wake.
Tell me something I didn’t know. Like how to not melt into a puddle every time your irritatingly perfect older stepbrother showed even an ounce of concern. Or maybe how to actually function like a proper adult instead of this disaster-in-progress masquerading as a human being. Or perhaps how to stop noticing the way his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders as he turned to leave or how his sweatpants hung low on his hips in a way that should be illegal before breakfast.
At twenty-one, I’d somehow achieved the impossible trifecta: virgin, social hermit, and living proof that popularity could be your worst enemy. Sure, girls flocked to me like I was giving away free concert tickets, and guys kept finding excuses to “help me with homework,” but my social skills remained firmly at “please don’t talk to me” level. Parties? My entire strategy was enter-avoid-escape, executed with the stealth of a ninja with social anxiety. The last time someone asked me out, I literally hid in the library for three days, camping out between the ancient philosophy texts where no one ever ventured. My relationship status wasn’t just single—it was aggressively, pathologically single.
And then there was the tiny, insignificant detail that made everything else look like a minor inconvenience: I was hopelessly, ridiculously, catastrophically in love with Jaxson. Because apparently, my life needed that extra sprinkle of complicated on top. It wasn’t just a crush or an infatuation—it was the kind of all-consuming love that made my chest ache whenever he was near, that had me cataloging his smiles and storing them away like precious treasures, that had me lying awake at night imagining impossible scenarios where he might feel the same way.
I lay there after he left, my heart performing its usual gymnastics routine—probably training for the Olympics of Emotional Turmoil. At this point, the pain in my chest deserved its own zip code and property taxes. Maybe I could rent it out to other hopeless cases. I pressed my hand against my sternum, feeling the rapid beat beneath my palm, wondering if it was possible for a heart to actually wear itself out from wanting someone so much.
Shaking off the funk, I tugged at my sleep shirt—an ancient hand-me-down from Colt that was practically a dress on me—trying to keep at least one shoulder from slipping off completely. Not that it ever worked. The soft, worn cotton kept sliding down no matter how many times I adjusted it, exposing more skin than was probably appropriate for family breakfast. I strode out to face the world—or at least the very cramped, one-bathroom hallway of our apartment, the floorboards creaking under my bare feet.
And there was Colt, fresh from his morning torture session—I mean, run—all six foot two of sweaty perfection that made Greek gods look like amateurs. He gave me that patented brooding stare, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in areally, Lan?expression. The fact that he could look like aMen’s Healthcover model while literally dripping with post-run sweat was justanother cosmic joke at my expense. I mean, who actually looks good in running shorts and a sweat-soaked tank top that clung to every defined muscle? Colt Sinclair, apparently. The hallway suddenly felt narrower, forcing me to brush past him if I wanted to reach the bathroom.
“Yeah, stayed up late,” I said, omitting the sordid details that kept me tossing and turning. Like how I’d spent half the night trying not to think about Jaxson in the room down the hall, probably sleeping shirtless as he always did when the summer heat crept in. I averted my eyes from the droplets of sweat trailing down Colt’s chest, disappearing beneath the fabric of his tank top.
“You’re new to the job; don’t muck it up,” Mr. Responsibility lectured, droplets of sweat from his run still glistening on his skin like morning dew, trailing down his chest like some kind of unfairly attractive cologne commercial. If life had a hall monitor, Colt would be it, probably writing citations for improper life choices while wearing his badge of perpetual perfectionism. His dark eyes tracked my movements with that intensity that always made me feel like I was being dissected.
“I’ll be on time. Post-shower and sans breakfast,” I assured him, probably with enough sass to give a drag queen a run for her money. I tried to squeeze past him in the narrow hallway, but he shifted slightly, blocking my path with his imposing frame.
“Breakfast, then work,” he insisted, like he was speaking to a particularly slow child. I rolled my eyes. Yeah, okay, drill sergeant. His tone when addressing me was always different than with the others—sharper, more demanding, with an edge that bordered on aggressive. It was like he saved a special version of himself just for me, and not in a good way.
I could have stood there arguing with him all morning, but my bladder was sending me an SOS, so I cut it short with apromise to ingest the most important meal of the day. However, Colt, ever the tyrant, wasn’t done with me yet. His hand slid roughly from my hair to grip my chin, forcing me to look up at him—a move that never failed to make me want to bite his fingers off. The contrast between his treatment and Jaxson’s gentle touches couldn’t be more stark.
“You look like death warmed over,” he criticized, his thumb rough against my cheek. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to scrub my face clean or leave a permanent mark. His touch wasn’t gentle like Jaxson’s—it was commanding, demanding, like he was trying to brand me with his fingerprints.
“Get off me,” I growled, shoving at his chest. Bad move. My palm met solid muscle, slick with sweat, and my brain short-circuited for a dangerous second. The feeling of his skin, hot and damp under my hand, sent an unexpected jolt through me. Colt only tightened his grip, pulling me closer until I could smell his post-run musk. Damn him for making even sweat smell good. The scent was nothing like Jaxson’s expensive aftershave—this was raw, primal, masculine in a way that made my stomach tighten for reasons I didn’t want to examine.
“Make me,” he challenged, voice low and gravelly, his breath hot against my face. His other hand came up to brush away my bedhead, probably just to annoy me further, but the gesture felt strangely intimate in the confined space of the hallway. His eyes traced down to where his old shirt had slipped off my shoulder again, lingering a beat too long before snapping back to my face. Something dark flickered in his gaze, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “You’re a mess, little brother.”
The way he said “little brother” always had an edge to it, like he was reminding himself more than me. Our bodies were too close in the narrow hallway, the heat from his workout-warmed skin radiating against mine, making the air between us feel charged and uncomfortable.
“I need to pee, you absolute tyrant,” I snapped, trying to duck under his arm, my cheeks burning from both irritation and something else I refused to name. The last thing I needed was to develop inappropriate feelings fortwostepbrothers. One hopeless crush was quite enough, thank you very much.
He finally released me with a smirk that suggested he’d won whatever game we were playing. “Better hurry, then. And wash your face while you’re in there—some of us have to look at you all day.” His eyes performed another slow scan of my appearance, from my tousled hair to my bare feet, lingering on the exposed shoulder that the shirt refused to cover properly.
“Some of us have to smell you all day,” I shot back, already backing away, trying to put some distance between us. “Ever heard of post-workout showers?”