You knew dating Ted was a bad idea the second he leaned across the couch that night and kissed you.

Not because it wasn’t amazing — it was, every bit of it — but because your brother was upstairs, and Ted was supposed to be off-limits. He was the guy who used to throw popcorn at you during movie nights, who called you “squirt” until you were sixteen, who your brother swore would never even look at you that way.

And then he did.

Now it had been four months.

Four months of stolen glances across the dinner table. Of brushing hands under the counter. Of him texting, "Your brother’s in the garage. Meet me on the porch in two."

You were getting good at sneaking around. Too good.

Like tonight. Your brother had invited a few friends over, Ted included, and while the guys argued about some video game in the living room, you were in the kitchen pretending not to know what Ted’s cologne smelled like. Pretending not to remember how he looked when he fell asleep next to you. Pretending not to be in love with him.

You turned to grab a snack, and suddenly Ted was right behind you — like he always was.

“You’re playing dangerous games, Nivison,” you murmured, eyes narrowed as you handed him a handful of chips.

He smirked. “You started this.”

“You kissed me first.”

He leaned down a little too close. “And I’d do it again.”

You shoved him lightly, trying not to laugh. “You’re gonna blow this for both of us.”

But before either of you could step away, your brother walked in — too fast, too quiet.

Ted straightened up so quickly he nearly dropped the chips.