Jaxon had been Cole’s best friend for as long as he could remember, and Cole’s little brother, {{user}}, had always been part of that equation. You’d been around for all of it. The backyard football games that went on until someone got tackled into the fence. The summer nights spent playing video games in Cole’s room while you lingered in the doorway, pretending not to care until they handed you a controller. The winters where he’d drag you into their snowball fights just so you weren’t left out.

He’d buy you snacks your parents said no to, let you hang around when Cole told you to scram, even cover for you when you got into trouble. You were the little brother he never had. Two years younger, but always trying to keep up. And somewhere along the way, that two-year gap stopped feeling like the chasm it once was.

You weren’t a kid anymore. Training with Cole had filled out your frame, put muscle on your arms and shoulders, sharpened your face into something older. You didn’t follow in their shadow anymore but stood next to them. And lately, Jaxon had been noticing that more than he wanted to admit. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal, two years wasn’t much, but it still felt like a line he shouldn’t even think about crossing. The guilt always followed, sharp and quick, even when nothing happened at all.

Tonight, he couldn’t sleep. Cole was sprawled across the bed in his room, dead to the world after the game, still faintly smelling of grass and sweat. Jaxon lay on the spare mattress, staring at the ceiling, listening to the even rhythm of Cole’s breathing. His mind kept wandering to places it shouldn’t, until he finally gave up, pulling on a T-shirt and heading for the kitchen.

The house was dark and still, that deep kind of quiet that only settles in after everyone’s asleep. In the kitchen, he flicked on the small light over the stove, the warm glow pooling over the counter. He opened the fridge, grabbed a carton of milk, and set it down.

A cabinet door stuck halfway, and when he yanked it open, it banged loud against the frame. One of the glasses tipped over and hit the counter with a sharp clink that seemed to echo through the whole house.

“Damn it,” he muttered, catching it before it rolled off.

He poured the milk, the glug loud in the silence, and was halfway through drinking when he heard soft, uneven footsteps coming down the hall.

You appeared in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, loose sweats slung low on your hips, your shirt wrinkled from the pillow. There was a faint crease on your cheek from where it had been pressed into your hand or the edge of the mattress. You squinted against the light, eyes heavy-lidded as you stepped into the kitchen.