Tyler's footsteps echo down the hallway before I hear the knock. It's soft, like he's not sure if he's welcome. Honestly, he probably isn't. But I open the door anyway.
He's in sweatpants and a hoodie hood up, hands shoved into his pockets, like he's trying not to take up space. Which is hilarious, considering he takes up all the oxygen in any room we're in together.
"Couldn't sleep," he says.
I nod and step aside.
He walks in like he's done it a million times, flopping onto the foot of my bed like this is routine. Like we're just two guys who hang out in the middle of the night. Like we're not sworn enemies turned stepbrothers who occasionally want to murder or make out with each other.
I sit on the other end. Not close. But not far.
Silence stretches between us, but it doesn't choke. Not tonight.
"You okay?" I ask eventually.
He shrugs. "Had a weird dream. Woke up and didn't want to be alone."
The honesty hits harder than it should. I chew on the edge of my thumbnail.
"You ever wonder," I say, "if things had gone different… would we have hated each other so much?"
His eyes flick to mine. "I didn't hate you."
I snort. "Sure felt like it."
"I didn't know how to… like you."
Something snaps quietly in my chest. I look away.
We sit like that for a while, suspended between past tension and present softness. Eventually, Tyler shifts closer.
"You cold?" he asks, voice low.
I nod. I'm not. But I nod.
He leans in, pulling the blanket over both of us. Our knees brush. Our shoulders. Heat blooms under my skin.
His hand slowly and carefully finds mine under the covers like I would disappear if his hand move fast. Fingers tangle. My breath hitch.
We look at each other like it's the first time. Like we haven't been dancing around this for weeks. Like we don't know it's dangerous.
He leans in, forehead almost brushing mine. "I'm not good at this."
"At what?"
"Caring."
I blink.
"I've never had to," he adds. "But with you… I don't know. It's different."
My heart does something stupid and aching. I want to pull away. I want to press in.
Instead, I whisper, "You're not the only one."
He shifts even closer, lips brushing my jaw. A ghost of a kiss. Barely there.
We don't speak. There's nothing to say.
Hands wander, slow and uncertain. My breath shudders out of me when his palm grazes my chest. Gentle. Testing. I arch into it without meaning to.
We move under the covers like it's a secret. Like the world can't touch us if we stay quiet enough.
His hand trails lower. Finds mine. Guides it.his body feels amazing.
I can't believe this is happening
We fumble. Laugh, breathless. Our bodies learn each other without words.
It's not perfect. It's not even pretty.we don't even really know what we're doing.
But it's real.
And when it's over, when we're lying side by side in silence, the air feels less heavy.
His fingers trace idle patterns on my arm. "You okay?"
I nod. But I don't let go.
"You always this quiet after being all handsy?" he teases.
"You always this clingy afterwards?"
He chuckles, but it's soft. Barely there.
I close my eyes. Try to let the quiet in. Try not to think about what comes next.
Because this thing between us it's a spark in a house made of dry timber.
And I'm scared to death it's going to burn us down.
The next morning, Tyler's gone. My door's cracked . There's no note, no awkward conversation. Just the warm indentation he left on the bed beside me and the memory of the way his hand trembled before he touched me.
Part of me is relieved. The other part wants to slam my fist into the nearest wall.
I don't do either.
Instead, I get ready like it's any other day. I throw on jeans and a hoodie, pretend I'm not overthinking every step. At breakfast, Mom chatters on about a fundraiser she and Mr. Morgan are organizing, but I barely hear it.
Tyler doesn't say a word.
Neither do I.
Dan corners me at my locker between third and fourth period. "You're giving off weird vibes," he says. "Like, 'I just kissed my mortal enemy and liked it' weird."
I slam my locker shut. "I didn't kiss anyone."
Dan narrows his eyes. "You didn't say you didn't like it."
I walk away.
Ok I might have told Dan a little about last night,which I am now starting to regret.
He follows. "Ben."
"What?"
"You're allowed to feel things, you know. Even confusing, messy, hot boy feelings."
I stop. "It's not like that."
Dan raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, it is. But it's also not. It's…"
"Intimacy without clarity," he says.
I blink. "Since when do you speak in poetry?"
Dan shrugs. "Since you started looking like a sad indie movie character. Just… be careful, okay?"
That night, I find Tyler in the living room. He's on the couch, scrolling through his phone with headphones in.
I sit beside him.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't move away.
I reach over and pull one of his earbuds out.
He glances at me, amused.
"We should probably talk."
"Probably," he agrees. "But I don't want to."
"Me neither."
We sit in silence again. But it's not empty.
Eventually, he says, "You put up a lot of walls, you know. And it makes it really hard to get to you."
I tense. "Yeah, well. You're not exactly a walk in the park."
He nudges me with his knee. "I'm serious. You shut down every time someone gets close."
I don't answer.
"Why?" he asks.
The room feels colder. I grip a throw pillow like it might protect me.
"Because everyone I've let in leaves. Or ruins me."
He goes quiet.
Then, "What if I don't?"
I laugh bitterly. "You will. Eventually."
"Not if you stop expecting me to."
He looks at me, really looks.
"Let me prove it."
My throat tightens.
I don't say yes.
But I don't push him away.
And for now, that's enough.
Tyler's hand slides beneath the hem of my hoodie.
It's slow. Careful. Almost reverent, like he's checking for permission without needing to ask.
His fingers trace the line of my hip bone, and I shiver, every nerve in my body singing.
I'm not used to this.
Not used to being wanted like this.
Not by him.
"I can stop," he says again, voice barely above a whisper.
I shake my head, breath hitching. "Don't."
And maybe that's all he needs to hear.
His lips return to mine gentler now, deeper. Like he's trying to memorize me from the inside out. One hand moves up my back, the other still stroking slow, maddening patterns along the waistband of my sweats. I can barely think. My body is tense, like I've been holding a breath for five years and only now remembered how to exhale.
I flinch when his thumb brushes skin.
He pauses. Pulls back slightly.
"You okay?" he murmurs.
I nod, but my voice catches. "Yeah. Just... don't look at me."
His brows furrow. "Ben"
"I'm serious."
A pause.
Then, surprisingly, he doesn't push. He just kisses my temple, soft and grounding, before sliding back down.
"I won't," he says against my throat. "Not unless you want me to."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
That's the thing, I do want him to. But wanting something and being able to have it without freaking out are two very different things.
So I let him take control.
His mouth trails lower, hands steady, and before I know it, he's tugging my sweats down with a grace that feels... practiced. Confident. But not cocky.
I expect him to make a joke about size or how hard I am already. But he doesn't.
He just looks at me like I'm a secret he doesn't want to share.
And then he touches me.
God.
This feels nothing like the last time we touched,it's like he became a pro of some sort.
His hand is warm, rough in all the right ways, and I jolt like I've been electrocuted.
"Relax," he whispers. "Let me."
I try.
I really do.
But my brain is working overtime. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of me screaming that this isn't real. That it's just another game. That it'll hurt later when he decides it meant nothing.
Still, I can't bring myself to stop him.
His strokes are firm, sure, and slow,like he wants to make it last. And I hate that I want to fall apart for him.
I bite my lip, trying to keep quiet, but a soft noise escapes anyway. Embarrassing. Raw.
He leans closer, lips brushing my ear. "That's it," he murmurs. "Let go."
And something in me does.
My body arches without permission, hands clutching the couch cushion like it might ground me. I gasp, pulse racing, heart hammering in my throat.
It doesn't take long.
I come hard, hips jerking, breath stuttering, and Tyler doesn't stop. Doesn't even flinch. He just watches me like he's proud, which somehow makes it worse.
When it's over, I collapse back into the cushions, flushed and panting.
And then comes the part I'm not ready for.
The part where he reaches for his own waistband.
"Wait," I say, voice hoarse.
He pauses. "What?"
"I can't."
He blinks. "You mean...?"
"I don't want to do it back."
Not because I don't want to.
But because I do.
Too much.
He sits up a little, face unreadable now. "Okay."
I expect a joke. Or that sharp edge he always hides behind.
But he just gives a tiny nod and adjusts himself with a quiet sigh.
"You sure?" he asks again, just to make sure I'm not doing this out of guilt or fear.
I nod. "Yeah. I just... I can't. Not tonight."
He studies me for a moment, then leans back against the armrest. "Okay."
Silence stretches between us again. Not uncomfortable. Not exactly.
But loaded.
I sit up slowly, pulling my sweats back into place, cheeks burning. "Sorry."
Tyler looks at me, brows slightly drawn. "Don't be."
"I just this was already... a lot. For me."
He nods. "I figured. I didn't do it expecting anything back."
I laugh quietly, rubbing the back of my neck. "That's a first."
He smirks. "Maybe you're special."
I give him a look.
Then a sigh.
"I'm scared," I admit. "That it'll mean more to me than it does to you."
He's quiet for a beat.
Then: "It already does."
I freeze.
He shrugs, like he didn't just throw a bomb in the middle of my fragile chest. "I've liked you for a long time, Ben. Even when I was a little shit. Maybe especially then."
I stare at him.
Because what do you even say to that?
"But you hated me," I whisper.
"I never hated you," he says softly. "I hated that I didn't know how to be around you without wanting something I wasn't supposed to."
My heart stutters.
"I ruined it before it could ever start," he says. "So yeah. I messed with you. I hurt you. Because back then, that was easier than... this."
"This is not easier," I say, half laughing, half drowning.
"No," he agrees. "But it's better."
I don't know if I believe him yet.
But I want to.
So I let him stay.
We don't kiss again.
We just lie there, tangled in awkward silence and tangled limbs.
And when I fall asleep, it's with his arm slung over my waist and his breath steady against my neck.
Not safe.
Not perfect.
But close enough to burn.