“You’re avoiding me again.”

I froze at the kitchen doorway.

“I’m not.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“You stopped calling me ‘brother’.”

“…Maybe I just grew up.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips.

“Or maybe you realized something.”

“Don’t,”

I whispered.

“We shouldn’t even joke about this.”

“Who’s joking?”

he stepped closer, voice dropping.

“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me?”

My heartbeat went wild.

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

His fingers brushed mine—barely, but it burned.

“Then why don’t you pull away?”

I couldn’t.

Silence stretched, heavy and dangerous.

“We’re family,”

I said, but it sounded weak—even to me.

“Not by blood,”

he replied softly.

“And not by choice.”

I finally looked up at him, breath shaky.

“This is wrong.”

“Then tell me to stop.”

I opened my mouth… but no words came out.

His gaze softened, just a little.

“That’s what I thought.”

And in that moment, the line between right and wrong blurred—leaving only something we were both too afraid to name.