Tyler left before I wake up, because I can't feel his warmth or his hands anymore. He should try to let me know before leaving.
Last night was a lot.
It must have been difficult for him to tell me about his brother's death even if he did not give full details.
I went about my morning routine quietly. But there is nothing quite going on in my head.
I went down to the kitchen and found mom making toast while Tyler...Tyler is shirtless and sipping his morning coffee. Again.
I am convinced that the word 'Privacy' does not exist in his dictionary. He is obviously aware of how hot his body looks and takes pride in showing off.
"Morning!" Mom's voice yanks me out of the spiral.
She is already dressed for work.
"Morning," I mumble.
Mr. Morgan slides into the room with his usual sleepy half-smile. "You boys ready for the school week?"
"No," I say.
"Yes," Tyler says at the same time.
Mom squints between us. "You two have been... getting along better. I'm almost suspicious."
"Maybe we're just maturing," Tyler offers, pouring a cup of coffee like he isn't a walking contradiction.
I roll my eyes. "Or maybe he's just too tired to be annoying."
"Aw," Tyler says, grinning. "You missed me being annoying?"
"I miss silence. And peace. And privacy."
"You're such a romantic in the morning, Benny."
I almost choke on my saliva upon hearing that nick name.
Mom watches us for a beat too long. "Just don't kill each other while we're gone, okay?"
"Can't make promises," I mutter.
Mr. Morgan chuckles, oblivious as always. "Teenage boys. Always dramatic."
Tyler leans in close when they leave. "If we were really dramatic, last night would've involved a lot more moaning."
I turn bright red. "You're a menace."
"Still your favorite menace though."
He walks off, smug.
School is frustrating.
Every time I look at him, I remember how he looked under the dim light of our shared living room, smirking while he touched me like it meant something. Like I meant something.
Dan notices the weird energy.
"Okay," he says, setting down his tray at lunch. "I know that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I got it bad for my mortal enemy but I'm confused if I like it or hate myself' look."
"Can we not do this here?"
"Tyler Morgan?" he whisper hisses. "Seriously?"
"Keep your voice down!"
Dan holds up his hands. "I'm just saying. If he's into you, and you're into him, and the world hasn't exploded, maybe this isn't the worst thing ever?"
"It's complicated."
"Yeah, because you make it complicated. Just... talk to him."
I don't.
Not until hours later, when the house is empty again and we're alone.
Tyler's on the couch, flipping through channels. He looks at me once, then does a double take.
"You've been avoiding me."
"No I haven't."
"You flinched when I handed you the remote."
"I flinch when you breathe too loudly."
He pats the space next to him. "Sit. I don't bite."
I sit. Our knees touch. The air is thick.
"You mad?" he asks.
"No."
"You regret it?"
Silence.
"Ben."
"I don't know."
He leans closer. "Do you want me to stop?"
I shake my head.
"Then stop fighting it."
I want to say something sarcastic. I want to push him away. But then his hand's on my thigh again and my brain short circuits. And before I can think too hard, I'm gasping into his mouth, my fingers clutching the fabric of his hoodie.
He pulls me into his lap, tilting my face to kiss me deeper.
I let him.
I let him do more.
I let myself want.
But when his hand slips under my waistband , I stop him.
"Not tonight."
He doesn't ask why. He just nods.
"Okay."
I wake up curled on the couch, covered in a blanket I don't remember pulling over myself. Tyler's not there.
There's a note stuck to the TV:
"Didn't want to wake you. You looked peaceful. –T"
I try not to smile.
Try.
The next few days blur. There's more touches. More teasing. More not-ignoring each other. Our parents still don't seem to notice, which is a miracle or a sign they're in denial.
Then Friday night rolls around.
Pizza. Movie. Just us.
I steal the last slice, Tyler glares like I insulted his ancestors.
"You're insufferable."
"You're dramatic."
"You're cute."
I blink. "What?"
He grins. "Nothing."
We don't watch the movie.
Instead, we end up kissing again. Slower. Hungrier. My back hits the armrest, and his hands roam, and I almost let go completely.
But then his phone buzzes.
He groans. "Ignore it."
It buzzes again.
And again.
"Tyler," I say, breathless. "What if it's important?"
He checks it. Pauses. Face falls.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"Don't lie."
He pockets it. "Just some spam. Doesn't matter."
But I see it in his eyes. That it does.
He doesn't kiss me again that night.
He pulls away too soon. Retreats to his room with an excuse about homework.
And the space between us grows again.
The next morning, I overhear him on the phone.
He's in the kitchen. And he Does not know I'm listening from the stairs.
"No," he says, voice low. "I haven't told him... I don't know how. Just give me time."
A pause.
"Because if he finds out, everything changes."
Another pause.
"I know. I know what I promised. But it's not that simple."
He hangs up.
I sneak back upstairs, heart pounding.
I don't know who he was talking to.
I don't know what he's hiding.
But I know one thing for sure:
The wrong kind of love is starting to feel dangerously right.
And it terrifies me.
Tyler doesn't come back to bed that night.
I hear him pacing the hallway outside my room, and at one point, I could swear he stops right at my door. Doesn't knock. Doesn't speak. Just breathes slow and shaky like he's debating something. Maybe walking in. Maybe walking away.
The footsteps finally fade.
The silence that follows is worse.
The next morning, things are... weird.
We're back to pretending, sort of. I don't even know. He's leaning on the kitchen counter shirtless, sipping orange juice straight from the bottle like we didn't just have a moment, like he didn't just tell me he'd ruin me.
"Ever heard of cups?" I mutter.
He grins lazily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why waste dishes when I have a perfectly good mouth?"
I blink. "Do you even hear yourself?"
"Oh, I do." He sets the bottle down and leans in. "Do you?"
I push past him to grab my toast, resisting the urge to throttle him. Or kiss him. It's a fine line these days.
Mom breezes in a few minutes later, dressed like she's going to brunch with the Queen.
"Morning, boys," she chirps. "Tyler, sweetie, how's your dad?"
"Still pretending he knows how to make eggs," Tyler says without missing a beat.
Mr. Morgan wanders in like a lost cat, dressed in khakis and a button-up that screams midlife crisis. "I heard that."
"Good," Tyler replies, reaching for more toast. "Just wanted to make sure your hearing aid's working."
Mom shoots him a look, but it's half-amused.
"Are you two getting along better?" she asks, eyes flicking between us.
Tyler looks at me. "We're working on it."
"Define working," I say.
"Define it for yourself, angel."
I choke on my toast.
"Angel?" Mr. Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Is that some new teenage lingo I'm too old to understand?"
"Sure, let's go with that," Tyler says, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
After they leave for their couple's painting class (yes, really), I'm left scrubbing peanut butter off the counter and trying not to combust from the way Tyler's watching me.
"Something on your mind?" I ask, not looking at him.
"Just wondering how long it'll take before you let me kiss you again."
I drop the sponge.
"Don't be stupid."
"Too late."
There's a beat of silence. Then:
"Ben."
I glance up.
He's not smirking anymore.
"What happened with Brayan?" he asks softly.
I freeze.
The question lands like a punch to the chest. All the air feels sucked out of the room.
"Why are you asking?"
"That note. The one that showed up at the door. I recognized the handwriting."
I narrow my eyes. "How?"
He hesitates, jaw flexing. "Because I've seen it before."
My heartbeat starts doing gymnastics. "Where?"
Tyler runs a hand through his hair. "My dad. He's been getting letters like that for months. Weird, cryptic ones. Stuff about 'unfinished business' and someone named chris. He brushed it off, said it was probably some mistake. But I saw one of them. Same handwriting."
The room tilts slightly.
"So... what, you think whoever wrote those letters is connected to Brayan?"
Tyler nods. "And I think your past and my dad's past are tangled up somehow."
My mind spins.
This isn't just a ghost from my past. It's something bigger.
"Did your dad ever mention Brayan?" I ask.
"No. But he avoids talking about a lot of things."
We sit there in the kitchen, the silence stretching between us like a frayed wire.
"I never told anyone what happened," I whisper. "About Brayan. About what he did."
Tyler leans closer. "Then tell me."
"I'm not ready."
He doesn't push. Just nods and backs off, but his eyes stay on mine, full of that intense, unreadable heat.
Later, we end up in the living room watching some dumb action movie. Well, I'm watching. Tyler is sprawled beside me, half-asleep, one leg pressed against mine.
His hand brushes mine.
Just a touch.
I let it stay.
"So what are we?" I ask, surprising both of us.
His eyes flutter open. "You mean besides a disaster in slow motion?"
I snort. "Yeah. Besides that."
He's quiet for a moment.
"I don't know," he says finally. "But I don't hate it."
And weirdly, neither do I.
We sit there, limbs tangled, secrets looming, and a slow-burning ache in my chest that feels dangerously close to hope.
But rules are rules.
Rule one: Don't fall.
Rule two: Definitely don't fall for your stepbrother, no matter how hot and edible he looks.
Rule three: Don't even think about breaking rules one and two.
I'm already screwed.