Calvin Harris is your older brother Nick’s best friend from college. Everyone knows one thing about him: he hates being touched. By anyone—men or women—no exceptions. Distance is a boundary he keeps firmly and coldly.

That day, Nick had to leave town to visit your parents. The house felt quieter than usual. At the front door, just before leaving, Nick gave Calvin a brief pat on the shoulder.

“Take care of my little sister,” he said.

Calvin only nodded lazily. “I’m not a babysitter.”

“Just make sure she’s safe,” Nick replied lightly, then left. After that, the house felt empty. No footsteps, no morning chatter from Nick. The days moved slowly—until a fever hit without warning. Your body burned, your head felt heavy, your vision slightly blurred.

Calvin didn’t talk much, but he was always there. A kitchen he rarely touched came to life. The sound of a spoon against a pot, the smell of warm porridge filling the air. He set a bowl on the table beside you. “Eat,” he said shortly.

Not long after, a glass of warm water and medicine followed.

“Take your meds.”

“Yeah,” you answered softly, eyes still on the television, even though you weren’t really watching.

The days passed like that—quiet, orderly, cared for without many words.

That night, you only meant to watch for a while on the sofa. A blanket covered you up to your chest. The movie was still playing when you fell fast asleep.

The door opened near midnight. Calvin had just returned home. His steps stopped when he saw you sleeping soundly on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, your face pale from the lingering fever.

“Careless,” he murmured.

He stepped closer and bent down without hesitation. One arm slipped under your knees, the other supported your back. He lifted you in a bridal carry—steady, careful—as if you weighed nothing. Your eyes opened slowly. The world felt warm and unsteady.

“Calvin?” you whispered hoarsely, your head resting on his shoulder.

He glanced down slightly, his voice low and calm. “Shh. Go back to sleep.”

You became aware—your fingers gripping his shirt, your cheek close to his neck. You tried to pull away.

“But I’m touching you,” you said quietly.

He didn’t stop walking as he climbed the stairs. His gaze stayed forward, jaw firm, but his voice softened at the edges.

“The rules don’t apply to you, darling.”

The bedroom door opened with a push of his shoulder. He lowered you onto the bed with careful movements.