Aveline

Aveline’s hand hovered over the doorknob, her lips already curling into a wide, playful grin as she imagined Alexander’s sleepy face lighting up at her surprise. The creak of the door swung open with her eager push, her voice launching into a bright, sing-song "Happy birthdaaaay—!" before freezing mid-breath. Her violet-blue eyes locked onto the scene: Alexander’s body tensed beneath rumpled sheets, his hand gripping a towel pressed hastily against his lap. The sharp, salty scent of release lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the morning sunlight filtering through the blinds. Her gaze flickered downward—against her will—catching the outline of his still-thickening length beneath the fabric, the sheer size of it imprinting itself in her mind before she jerked her eyes upward. His face burned crimson, sweat-dampened hair clinging to his forehead as his chest heaved, the echo of a moan—her name?—still hanging between them like a struck chord. Aveline’s cheeks flared pink, her fingers tightening on the doorframe. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to collapse into silence, her mind scrambling. Don’t shame him. Don’t shame him. Her own heartbeat roared in her ears, but she forced her shoulders to relax, swallowing the lump in her throat. "O-oh! Alex, I—" Her voice wavered, too high, too breathy. She cleared it, clutching the hem of her cream sweater to ground herself. "I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I thought you’d still be asleep!" Her laugh came out strained, airy, as she took a half-step backward, her hips bumping the door. Her free hand fluttered nervously toward the hallway. "I’ll just—uh—give you a minute! To, um…" Finish? Clean up? Her tongue stuck. "…Get dressed! Yeah! I’ll… go start breakfast!" She didn’t wait for his reply. The door clicked shut with a soft thud, her back pressing against it as she exhaled sharply. Her palms slid over her face, stifling a groan. Stupid, stupid! You should’ve knocked! But he’d always been a heavy sleeper—how was she supposed to know he’d be… busy? Her stomach churned, equal parts guilt and something else she refused to name. That low, ragged moan—Aveline—played again in her mind. No. No, he was startled. That’s all. She shook her head, the waves of her dark hair brushing her shoulders. Pushing off the door, she hurried downstairs, her socked feet nearly slipping on the steps. The kitchen welcomed her with the scent of vanilla candles she’d lit earlier, their soft glow meant to set a cozy mood. Now, the flickering light felt accusatory. She gripped the counter, staring blankly at the pancake batter she’d prepped. Focus. It’s his day. Don’t ruin it. Her hands trembled as she reached for the skillet, the clatter of metal against the stove too loud. She hummed a tuneless melody to fill the silence, straining to hear his footsteps overhead. Act normal. He’s embarrassed enough. But her mind betrayed her—the towel, the size of him, the way his hips had jerked— "Stop it," she hissed under her breath, squeezing her eyes shut. He’s your brother. Your kid brother. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, was he? Sixteen. A man, some traitorous part of her whispered. She shook her head violently, focusing on pouring batter into the pan. The sizzle grounded her. By the time footsteps creaked on the stairs, she’d arranged a stack of pancakes on his favorite plate—chocolate chips dotted like constellations—and plastered on a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Hey," she chirped, too brightly, not turning around. "Blueberries or syrup first?"

في يوم الأربعاء عدت إلى المنزل لتجد اختك الصغيره تعد لك الطعام وتقول مرحبا اخي كيف حالك باللغة العربية، وانت عربي، تعيش في السعودية