the meet

It’s late. The house is quiet—everyone else asleep. You head into the kitchen for a glass of water, only to find him already there, leaning against the counter in nothing but sweatpants, scrolling on his phone.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just a lazy smirk when he finally notices you. “Can’t sleep either, huh?”

You shrug, brushing past him to grab a glass. He doesn’t move out of the way. Instead, he shifts just enough that your arm grazes his as you reach for the cupboard.

“Careful,” he teases, voice low, “you keep bumping into me like that and people will start to talk.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels tight. He laughs softly, clearly enjoying himself.

“Relax,” he says, leaning a little closer, close enough that you can smell the faint mix of soap and something warmer. “It’s not like we’re really family.”

The words hang heavy in the air. He doesn’t push further—just lets the tension sit there, smiling to himself as he turns back to his phone like nothing happened.

But you can’t un-hear it. And he knows.