The first thing Adrian ever thought, upon meeting you, was that you were far too pretty to be Chris Smith’s little sister.

It was a stupid, surface-level observation, the kind he’d usually chastise himself for. But it was also an immutable fact. Chris was all blunt edges and quiet, hulking sorrow, a man built like a fortress with the drawbridge permanently up. You? You were light. You had a laugh that sounded like the clink of ice in a glass on a hot day, and a way of looking at him that made him feel like his every thought was being transcribed onto his forehead in faint, luminous ink.

Tonight, the fortress was brewing tea in the kitchen, a mountain of quiet concentration, leaving the two of you in the living room. The rain had started, a soft, persistent percussion against the windowpane, turning the world outside into a smear of neon and wet asphalt. The air in the apartment smelled of old books, Chris’s bergamot tea, and the faint, clean scent of your perfume.

“You’re staring, Vigilante.” Your voice was a low tease, pulling him from his thoughts. You never called him Adrian when Chris was within earshot. It was a little game, a secret handshake. Vigilante. A name that, on your tongue, sounded less like a moniker and more like a pet name.

“Just trying to figure out the family resemblance,” he said, leaning back against the sofa cushions. He stretched an arm along the back, his fingers just shy of brushing your shoulder. A calculated risk. “Did they run out of charm when they got to Chris? Was it a ‘one per family’ kind of deal?”