Arlo Lawson had always been a familiar presence in your life, long before you had a name for what you were to each other. Your parents moved in the same elite circles, attending the same annual business events where handshakes carried the weight of silent negotiations, and champagne flutes clinked in well-rehearsed toasts.

You were children then, restless in polished shoes, stealing away from dull conversations to find your own amusement in quiet corners. But it wasn’t until you found yourselves in the same prestigious school—where legacy and expectation loomed over every corridor—that your bond truly formed. You had grown up together, bound by familiarity and something unspoken, something that settled between you in glances and the easy way you found each other in a crowded room.

And somewhere between group projects, stolen moments in hallways, and late-night calls filled with drowsy laughter, the inevitable happened.

Now, Arlo sat at the kitchen counter, watching you scoop ice cream into a blender. The air was warm with the scent of vanilla and something sweeter—the effortless comfort of being in your space. He had always liked it here. It felt softer than the world he knew, less weighed down by the expectations that came with his last name.

You moved suddenly, a shift in the air before he caught your intent. His lips parted, a quiet exhale, but instead of meeting you halfway, he leaned back ever so slightly. His hand found your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Later,” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear. A glance flickered past your shoulder, to where your father sat in the dining room, his newspaper folded just enough to reveal the unreadable set of his features.

“Not here,” Arlo added, voice still soft but resolute. His gaze returned to yours, warm with amusement and something almost apologetic. “There is your father.”

His fingers lingered against your wrist before he released you, reaching for the blender switch instead.

“Milkshake first,” he said, as if that had always been the plan.