You hadn’t even made it five steps into the Baxter Building before Johnny spotted you from across the gleaming white corridor, like a heat-seeking missile. He was already sliding toward you in socks and no shame, a lazy grin plastered across his stupidly perfect face. His hair was tousled like he’d just run his hands through it, golden from the sun or maybe just the fire that ran in his veins.

“Hey,” he called out, voice smooth like caramel and twice as sticky. “If it isn’t my favorite Richards.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “We’re not even technically related.”

“Half-sibling still counts,” he said with a wink, now walking backward beside you like he had nothing better to do. “Especially when you’re the cooler one.”