Chapter 1 #3
“You look like death warmed over,” he criticized, his thumb rough against my cheek. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to scrub my face clean or leave a permanent mark. His touch wasn’t gentle like Jaxson’s—it was commanding, demanding, like he was trying to brand me with his fingerprints.
“Get off me,” I growled, shoving at his chest. Bad move.
My palm met solid muscle, slick with sweat, and my brain short-circuited for a dangerous second.
The feeling of his skin, hot and damp under my hand, sent an unexpected jolt through me.
Colt only tightened his grip, pulling me closer until I could smell his post-run musk.
Damn him for making even sweat smell good.
The scent was nothing like Jaxson’s expensive aftershave—this was raw, primal, masculine in a way that made my stomach tighten for reasons I didn’t want to examine.
“Make me,” he challenged, voice low and gravelly, his breath hot against my face.
His other hand came up to brush away my bedhead, probably just to annoy me further, but the gesture felt strangely intimate in the confined space of the hallway.
His eyes traced down to where his old shirt had slipped off my shoulder again, lingering a beat too long before snapping back to my face.
Something dark flickered in his gaze, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “You’re a mess, little brother.”
The way he said “little brother” always had an edge to it, like he was reminding himself more than me. Our bodies were too close in the narrow hallway, the heat from his workout-warmed skin radiating against mine, making the air between us feel charged and uncomfortable.
“I need to pee, you absolute tyrant,” I snapped, trying to duck under his arm, my cheeks burning from both irritation and something else I refused to name. The last thing I needed was to develop inappropriate feelings for two stepbrothers. One hopeless crush was quite enough, thank you very much.
He finally released me with a smirk that suggested he’d won whatever game we were playing.
“Better hurry, then. And wash your face while you’re in there—some of us have to look at you all day.
” His eyes performed another slow scan of my appearance, from my tousled hair to my bare feet, lingering on the exposed shoulder that the shirt refused to cover properly.
“Some of us have to smell you all day,” I shot back, already backing away, trying to put some distance between us. “Ever heard of post-workout showers?”
“Ever heard of morning routines?” he called after me as I escaped down the hallway, his voice carrying that mixture of amusement and condescension that was uniquely Colt.
I flipped him off without looking back, ignoring how my skin still tingled where he’d touched it.
God, why did he always have to be so aggressive about everything?
And why did it sometimes make my pulse race in a way that confused and annoyed me?
Colt was nothing like Jaxson—where Jaxson was warmth and gentle teasing, Colt was all sharp edges and challenging stares.
Yet something about that intensity occasionally caught me off guard, making me wonder things I shouldn’t.
After escaping his manhandling—and resisting the urge to rub my probably bruised chin—I made a beeline for the bathroom, hoping against hope nobody was conducting a symphony in there.
The last thing I needed was to encounter another brother in my current state of dishevelment and emotional confusion.
Luck—or maybe just the absence of constipated brothers—was on my side, and Nico bounded out like a human ray of sunshine, his perpetual whistle carrying some Top 40s tune.
His whole face lit up when he saw me, like I was his favorite person in the world, his smile bright enough to power a small city.
“Morning, grumpy!” he chirped, throwing an arm around my shoulders despite my best impression of a statue. His touch was different from both Jaxson’s and Colt’s—casual, brotherly, without the undercurrents that made my pulse race. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
I nodded, managing a small smile that only Nico could ever coax out of me this early, and locked myself in the tiny tiled sanctuary.
The mirror reflected back a face flushed with more than just sleep, eyes a little too bright, hair a disaster zone.
I looked exactly like what I was—a mess of inappropriate feelings and confused desires.
Let’s be real, this apartment and all its dysfunctional charm was more a lovable prison than a loving home.
Every corner held memories, every room was saturated with the presence of the brothers who had raised me.
Especially Jaxson, whose touch lingered on my skin like a ghost I couldn’t exorcise, whose smile haunted my dreams, whose very existence made my heart ache with wanting something I couldn’t have.
I’d had enough. By the end of summer, I made a mental promise to myself—I’d be out of here, brothers’ opinions be damned.
Maybe with some distance, I could finally get over these feelings.
Maybe in a new place, without Jaxson’s constant presence, I could learn to breathe again without my chest hurting.
Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to stop loving him.