It was wrong.
We both knew it.
We shouldn’t have kissed — not when the world still saw us as siblings.
Not when we had spent years pretending the lines between us were clear.
But that wasn’t even the real problem.
The real problem was how badly neither of us seemed to regret it.
That day—
“No! Get off me!” I twisted, pushing at his chest.
“You’re soaked,” he said quietly, eyes scanning me. “You’re shivering.”
His hand hovered near my arm — too close, too familiar.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, shifting away. “Don’t touch me like that.”
He gave a low laugh. “You weren’t saying that last night. Or were you hoping I’d forget?”
My breath caught. “You— you saw me?”
“You kept staring.” His voice softened, almost dangerous in how gentle it sounded. “At me. Like you wanted to say something but couldn’t.”
Heat crawled up my neck. I looked away.
“Stop it.”
“Why?” He leaned closer. “Why pretend you don’t feel anything?”
My pulse jumped.
He was close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, close enough that every memory of last night — every almost, every breath — came rushing back.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered. “We’re… we’re supposed to be—”
“Family?” He scoffed softly. “Everyone calls us that. But we’re not. Not really. And you know it.”
I froze.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low. “If this means nothing to you… tell me. I’ll walk away.”
My lips parted, but no words came out.
His breath brushed my cheek, warm, steady.
“Say it,” he murmured. “Say you don’t want this.”
I hesitated.
Too long.
His expression changed — slow, knowing, a quiet smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.
“You can’t,” he whispered. “Can you?”
My fingers curled, trembling.
“I… I don’t know.”
He moved even closer, the space between us barely a breath.
“Then stop running from it.”
