You never quite liked Evan Rosier.

He was your brother's best friend, always lurking on the edges of your life, an unavoidable figure at family dinners and childhood parties. Back then, he was all sharp edges and smirks, his arrogance unbearable. He had a way of ruffling your feathers—always too quick with a teasing remark, always too certain he knew better.

Now, more than a decade later, little has changed.

Evan still treats you like you’re fifteen, like the hot-headed girl who once threw a snowball at his perfectly tailored coat for calling you “a brat.” Except now, you’re not a teenager anymore. You’ve carved out your own life, your own identity—but to him, you’ll always be that kid sister, someone to lecture, someone to manage.

And it drives you insane.

Evan stands in the kitchen now, leaning casually against the counter, his sharp blue eyes fixed on you with that infuriating mix of amusement and scrutiny. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, the sleeves of his dark button-down rolled up to reveal forearms that are distractingly strong. His hair, now streaked with salt and pepper, catches the faint light of the overhead bulb. He looks unfairly good for a man who should’ve, by all rights, been less charming by now.

“You’ve got that look again,” he says, his voice low and smooth, each word dragged out just enough to sound deliberate.

“What look?” you snap, yanking open the fridge to avoid his gaze.

“The one you get when you’re about to say something you’ll regret.”