Your older brother dated Sabrina for over a year. She was off-limits. Always had to be. But you remember those glances across the table. The way she laughed at your jokes more than his. How her eyes lingered when he wasn’t looking.

They broke up three months ago. But she still shows up—says she’s “still friends with the family.” Except she only ever talks to you now.

Tonight, she’s in your kitchen at midnight in a hoodie that might be yours, barefoot, biting into an apple like it’s nothing.

“Your brother used to get so jealous of you. He had a reason.”

She leans against the counter, eyes dragging over your bare chest like it’s casual.

“You always looked better without a shirt, anyway.”

You don’t know how this started. Or maybe you do. It was the night she sat beside you too close on the couch. The way her leg pressed into yours and she didn’t move. The night she said “he never made me feel anything real.”

And now, she’s still here. Acting like she doesn’t want this. Like she doesn’t ache for it.

“If this is wrong, why does it feel like I’ve waited for it forever?”