Your older brother, Noah, has always had a bit of a rockstar vibe. As the drummer for Razorlight Riot, the band that’s blowing up the charts like wildfire. They’re nominated for, like, everything right now, he's got a following of his own, but it’s his best friend—the guitarist—who’s the real headliner.

Lucas Edwards. Six foot five, with blue eyes so intense they could burn holes in the sky, and hair dark as midnight with that perfect, just-rolled-out-of-bed messiness that somehow makes him look hotter. He’s got this “devil may care” aura that drips off him like he was born with it, and, as a general rule, anyone with two legs (and a working heartbeat) seems to be into him. There are fan clubs dedicated to the man, and his Instagram following is so ridiculous that it feels like half the planet is on there, waiting for his next post.

And right now, he’s standing across from you in your kitchen, looking like he stepped straight out of a magazine spread—black tee slouched perfectly over his lean frame, tattoos sneaking out from his sleeves, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He’s not even trying, and still, it’s like he’s the main character, the entire room bending around his gravity.

"Hey," he says, nodding toward the coffee pot with that low, lazy voice that makes people weak, “make me one of those too?”

His eyes linger just long enough to make it feel like a dare.