He used to hold your hand when you were little.

That was the first thing you remembered as you stared at your reflection in the mirror above the guest room dresser. You had been given this room as “your usual,” the same one you stayed in during holidays, the one that still had your favorite blanket folded on the corner of the bed because he knew you got cold at night.

Even now.

Even after he married someone else.

You traced the edge of the dresser with your fingertips, remembering the way he’d sneak into your room as a kid, a flashlight in hand, because the thunder scared you. He’d crawl under your blanket, whisper jokes to make you giggle, hold your tiny hand in his just to calm your heartbeat.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?” That’s what he always said. And you always believed him.

He was the golden boy—older, taller, stronger. He always knew where to find you. He was never mean, never cold. Just… yours. Until he wasn’t.

Until she came along.

A knock at the guest room door snapped you out of it.

“Come in,” you said, your voice even.

He stepped inside like he didn’t know whether to breathe or break.

His sleeves were rolled up now, neck flushed, eyes stormy and unreadable. He looked like a man in a war he didn’t know how to end.

“I sent her out,” he said simply. “Told her I forgot to buy candles for dinner.”

“You’re lying a lot lately.”

He looked at you. “Only to survive.”

You didn’t answer. He shut the door behind him.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

“You remember,” he said quietly. “Don’t you?”

You blinked. “Remember what?”

“When you broke your arm falling off the bike. I was fifteen. You were eleven. You didn’t cry until they took you to the hospital. But you wouldn’t let go of my hand. Not even then.”

You swallowed hard.

“You cried so hard I thought I’d pass out,” he said, a smile twitching, but his eyes were glassy. “And I kept saying, ‘I’m right here. I won’t leave you.’ Over and over.”

You turned away.

“Don’t do this.”

“I can’t stop,” he whispered. “I haven’t been able to since I realized you weren’t just my baby sister anymore.”

Your stomach twisted violently.

“You’re married,” you snapped.

“I know.”

“She smiles at you like you hung the stars.”

“I know.”

“She trusts you.”

“And that’s the worst part,” he said, voice cracking. “Because I’ve already betrayed her. Every time I think about you. Every time I dream about you. Every time I remember how you looked that night—standing at the wedding in that dress, clapping for me like you hadn’t already broken my heart three years ago when you started calling me just brother again.”

You turned slowly. “What else was I supposed to call you?”

“Anything but that.”

He walked closer.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he asked. “That summer at the cabin when you were seventeen, and you’d fall asleep on the couch with your head on my lap like you still belonged there? I used to count your breaths just to stay sane.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I was terrified,” he admitted. “Because if I said it, it would be real. And if it was real, I’d never be able to undo it. I didn’t want to ruin you. Or me.”

You were breathing hard now.

“But you married her.”

He stared at you like you’d hit him.

“I thought I had to,” he said. “Because we were wrong. And she was everything that made sense.”

“And what am I?” you demanded. “A mistake?”

He stepped forward again, close now—close enough to smell the heat of his cologne and the faint scent of you still stuck on his shirt from lunch.

“You’re the only thing that ever felt like home,” he said.

Then his hand rose slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, trembling like he was touching fire.

“I loved you even when I wasn’t supposed to,” he whispered. “When you were thirteen and cried because you didn’t think you were pretty. When I carried you home in the rain after you got sick at school. When I saw you in your prom dress and had to bite my tongue until it bled.”

“I needed you to be my brother,” you said softly.

“I tried,” he replied. “I swear, I tried. But I want to be more."