The Rule

There were rules. Some unspoken. Some carved in stone. But the one you and Arya swore by? That one was sacred:

No dating each other’s brothers. No looking. No flirting. No exceptions.

You made it when you were fourteen, sprawled on her bedroom floor, faces covered in face masks, giggling about boys and dream colleges.

“If you ever crush on my brother,” Arya said, brandishing a sparkly nail file, “I’ll actually m**der you.”

“Please,” you snorted. “He’s basically allergic to feelings.”

You pinky-promised. Sealed it with glitter polish and dramatic flair.

But the truth? It was already too late.

Because you’d already started noticing Marcus Vale.

Her older brother. The one with brooding eyes, quiet intensity, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He didn’t smile much. Didn’t talk unless he had to. But somehow, he always noticed things. Noticed you.

Your families had been tied together for decades—best friends since college, neighbors since forever. Vacations, birthdays, late-night takeout on Fridays. Their house felt like yours.

Which meant Marcus was always there.

At first, he was just background noise. Then he became something else entirely.

You weren’t sure when it changed—maybe when he caught your arm last spring to pull you out of the way of a rogue soccer ball. Or maybe that time at Christmas when he handed you a mug of hot cocoa and your fingers brushed. He’d said nothing—but looked at you like he felt it too.

It didn’t matter when. It only mattered that it had.

And that it was completely, stupidly off-limits.

Arya’s text pinged at 3:06 p.m.

“Sleepover. Bring snacks. No excuses.”

By 8:00, you were wrapped in her comforter, hoodie sleeves over your hands, movie queued up. She talked a mile a minute—school drama, TikToks, a guy who might like her but couldn’t text first if his life depended on it.

At some point, your phone died.

By 1:30, Arya was out cold beside you, snoring softly. You padded out of her room, trying not to step on the pile of laundry near the door.

You crept down the stairs, heading toward the charger you’d left in your bag by the couch. The living room glowed faintly with TV light.

And there he was.

Marcus.

Stretched out on the couch in gray sweats and a black t-shirt, one arm behind his head, watching a movie on low volume.

You tried to move quietly—really, you did.

But your toe caught the edge of the coffee table.

You hissed through your teeth. “Sh!t”

Marcus sat up instantly. “You okay?”

You dropped onto the armrest, clutching your foot. “Stubbed my toe. Hard. Might’ve broken the d@mn thing.”

He stood and crossed to you, eyes narrowing when he saw the faint smear of blood near your toenail.

“Come here.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t ask again. Just disappeared into the kitchen and came back with the first aid kit. “Put your foot up.”

You obeyed, heartbeat hammering as he knelt in front of you. He took your foot gently in his hands, cleaning the cut in slow, careful movements.

You watched his head dip low, felt his breath fan across your skin.

He smelled like clean cotton and something warm and earthy—like cedarwood or leather. Masculine.

Your breath hitched.

He glanced up, eyes meeting yours. Something passed between you. Quiet. Heavy.

And then he leaned in, close enough that your knee brushed his chest, close enough that the air shifted.

“You should be more careful,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You should stop looking at me like that.”

He didn’t blink. “Like what?”

“Like you know what I’m thinking.”

His hands stilled. His voice dropped low. “Maybe I do.”