“Come on, put the helmet on and sit,” Maikail said, the words coming out almost harsh as he shoved a motorcycle helmet into her hands.

“I can walk, or call an Uber,” his stepsister protested. She’d only had one drink—barely enough to feel anything—but of course he had to lean into the role of annoying, overbearing brother.

“{{user}}.” Just her name. Flat voice, blank expression, tired eyes. He didn’t even bother arguing. And she knew better than to push him when he was in that mood. With a quiet sigh, she slipped the helmet on.

He swung a leg over the bike, clearly irritated. “Why would you spend money on an Uber when we’re going to the same damn house?” he muttered, annoyed and already starting the engine, as if daring her to keep debating it.

The ride home felt heavier than usual.

Maikail didn’t speak; he never did when he was in one of those moods. But tonight, the silence wasn’t just silence—it pressed against her back, against her arms wrapped around him, against the space between what they were and what they pretended to be.

When they got home, he didn’t even look at her, just dropped the keys on the counter with a sharp clatter.

“Lock the door,” he muttered.

She did. Because she always did.

Upstairs, he paused outside his bedroom the way he always did on nights like this—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, pretending he wasn’t waiting for her to follow.

“You’re not drunk,” she said softly. It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a question.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he replied, voice low. Then, after a beat, “You coming or not?”

There it was. The part that made everything complicated.

They weren’t blood related, but that hardly made it simple. Their parents had been married long enough that everyone treated them like actual siblings—and they played along because it was easier that way. Cleaner. Less… dangerous.

And yet here they were. Again.

She stepped into his room, closing the door behind her with the quietest click—quiet enough that it felt secret, wrong, something no one should see.

He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had personally offended him.

“This is stupid,” she whispered.

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. So? It works.”

She approached him slowly, and he didn’t move until the mattress dipped under her weight. Only then did he exhale, as if the air had been trapped in his chest all day.

He lay back, eyes on the ceiling. She lay beside him, not touching, but close enough that their breaths synced without permission.

After a long minute he spoke, barely above a whisper: “I hate that I need this.”

She swallowed. “You don’t—”

“Don’t lie.” His voice wasn’t sharp. Just tired. Painfully honest.

“We both know it’s messed up,” he added. “But the nights without you are worse.”

Her heart thudded in her throat. Because she knew exactly what he meant. And because she didn’t have the courage to deny it.

The darkness around them thickened with all the things they’d never say, all the lines they shouldn’t cross—lines they hovered dangerously close to anyway.