You hadn’t seen him in months.

Lucas only came back a few times a year, always swept in on the heels of some Premier League match or international duty. He lived in London now. Trained, traveled, existed in a world far from yours. And yet… when your mom told you he’d be visiting this weekend, your stomach flipped.

You were youngest of all siblings. Practically family, but technically no. You were adopted by swedish couple with three sons.

You tried to play it cool. Just your stepbrother. Just Lucas. Rasmus and Theo were over the moon—already fighting over who got to share a room with him, already planning the FIFA tournaments and trash talk like nothing had changed.

But something had changed. You weren’t a little kid anymore.

And when Lucas stepped into the house—bag slung over his shoulder, blonde hair messy from the plane, that sharp jawline even sharper in real life—you realized it all over again.

He wasn’t the boy you met when his parents adopted you. He was nineteen now. Taller. Broader. All bone and muscle and eyes that cut through you like they knew.

He shook Theo’s hand, wrestled Rasmus onto the couch like nothing had changed. But when his eyes met yours… They lingered. Just a second too long.

“Hey, kid,” he said, voice low, teasing.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

But your cheeks burned. And he noticed.

Dinner was chaos—your dad laughing too loud, Theo trying to one-up everyone, Rasmus kicking you under the table. But you kept sneaking glances at him. Lucas. Sitting across from you. Fork twirling pasta, veins in his forearms visible under the rolled sleeves of his hoodie.

You hated how aware you were of him.

After dinner, the boys vanished into the basement to play PlayStation. You stayed behind, helping your mom clean up—until she shooed you away. “Go hang out with them,” she said, smiling.