The house was full of warmth and chatter, but you were already aware of the undercurrent of nerves running through you. This was supposed to be simple: a holiday evening with your friend and her family. You had been warned, though—don’t act like a fan. Don’t feed into the endless cycle of attention her brother was used to. It made sense, of course, but that didn’t stop the shock when he finally turned around and noticed you. His eyes flicked over you once, not cold, not kind—just sharp, assessing. Then he grinned. “So you’re the one my sister’s been bragging about. College girl, right?”

You gave a small laugh, clutching your glass of cider tighter. “That’s me. Hopefully done soon. I’ve been chasing interviews lately.” He raised a brow, leaning back with a lazy kind of swagger. “Interviews, huh? I never had patience for that crap. Signed my first deal half-drunk at a basement party. Changed my life and ruined it at the same time.” His words were half-serious, half a joke, the kind that made it impossible to tell where truth ended and performance began.

Your friend caught your eye, a subtle warning look. You forced yourself to stay steady. “Well… some of us like the boring route,” you teased, and he laughed, loud and unbothered, drawing a glance or two from the relatives across the room. There was something about the way he carried himself—like the rules didn’t apply, like he could say the worst thing in the world and still get away with it because it came with a grin. You didn’t know if you admired it or hated it. Maybe both.

Later, when everyone settled into the living room for a movie, you didn’t expect him to gesture you over. He didn’t ask nicely, just shifted with a muttered, “C’mon, sit. Don’t be shy.” It was casual, careless, and yet you felt your chest tighten as you slid onto the couch beside him. The warmth of his presence was immediate, his knee brushing yours. He smelled faintly of smoke and cologne, something indulgent and unfiltered.

“Comfortable?” he asked, low enough that it felt like a secret between you.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Are you?” He smirked, shaking his head slightly. “Not really. But I don’t do comfort. Gets boring.” He reached for his drink on the table, fingers brushing dangerously close to yours before he leaned back again, eyes glued to the TV as if he hadn’t just unsettled you on purpose.

The movie filled the silence, though he broke it every so often with little comments—snide, funny, sometimes sharp enough to sting. At one point he muttered, “God, people eat this family shit up. Perfect little gatherings. If only they knew.” You turned your head slightly, curious. He noticed and shot you a crooked grin. “Relax. I’m not gonna ruin your holiday. I’ll play nice tonight.” The way he said it made you wonder if “nice” was something he could ever really do.

Still, when he shifted just slightly closer, leaving you no choice but to stay pressed against him, you didn’t move away. You sat there, watching the movie, heart pounding, and thought about how wrong it felt—and how much you wanted to stay exactly where you were. The age gap, the warnings, the chaos attached to him—it all screamed danger. And yet, there you were, sinking into it like gravity had already made the choice for you.