You and Fring have always been close. After your parents died, he stepped in, quietly taking care of you without ever making you feel like a burden. He’s only ten years older, but somehow he’s managed to be everything: big brother, dad, uncle, family—everything you needed.

You never really knew what to call the way you felt about him. You tried to think of him as just family, but it was more complicated than that. You were attracted to him—painfully, achingly so—but you would never let yourself admit it out loud.

Some nights, the house felt too quiet, too empty, and you’d slip into his room, curling up beside him when the loneliness got too heavy. You always pretended it was just because you didn’t want to sleep alone, hoping he never realized it was something else—something deeper that you didn’t know how to name.

Tonight, you’re lying on the couch in your shared home, trying not to think about him in the next room, trying not to imagine what it would be like if you let yourself reach for him—and what it would mean if he reached back.