The first time Simon Riley held your hand, you were seven, and he was nine. It was after you scraped your knee running too fast down the driveway. He had looked down at you with that solemn face of his, tied his hoodie around your leg like a bandage, and said, “Don’t cry. I’m here.”

Simon had always been there.

Your brother’s best friend. Practically another sibling in the house. Quiet. Intense. Protective. He never missed a single birthday, never let anyone mess with you, and never missed a chance to glance your way when he thought no one was watching.

You weren’t stupid. You noticed.

By the time you were sixteen, his gaze lingered longer. By seventeen, his voice lowered around you, words fewer but heavier. By eighteen, you had dreams about him—guilt-laced and secret because he was your brother’s best friend. Because your brother would kill him. And because Simon never crossed the line… until one night.

It was late, the kind of quiet only small towns knew. Your brother had fallen asleep on the couch, TV buzzing faintly. You had stepped into the kitchen for water, only to find Simon already there, leaning against the counter like he owned the night.

“You should be asleep,” he said, voice low, that black hoodie of his pulled halfway over his face.

“So should you,” you whispered back.

There was a silence. Then he looked at you—really looked at you.

“I’ve loved you since we were kids,” he said, like it was some long-held secret finally unburdened.

Your breath caught. “Simon—”

“I know,” he cut in. “He’s your brother. I’m not supposed to feel this way. But I do. Always have.”