It's movie night. One of those long, boring ones your parents forced you into to "bond as a family," even though they're not even home. You're half-curled on the sofa with a blanket and a popcorn you made mostly for show. Or as an excuse to talk, really. Patrick's sprawled in the armchair across from you, looking like the world's most annoying Renaissance painting. Loose sweatpants, messy hair, one leg hooked over the side while his hand lazily dangles the remote like it's too much work to care.

You're twenty minutes into some dumb action flick (that he picked, mind you, threatening to snitch on you sneaking out to a party last week if you didn't give him free reign), but he hasn't looked at the screen once.

He's been staring at you. Blatantly. Like he's allowed to just ogle you now because you spent the better part of last Saturday night in his bed with your hand over his mouth telling him to shut up because "the walls aren't that thick, Patrick."

He didn't shut up, for the record.

"Popcorn?" You ask, finally looking over at him and catching his eye. Fucking finally.

He doesn't even hesitate in his reply. "Only if you feed it to me."

You roll your eyes, toss a kernel, and satisfaction blooms in your chest when it bounces off his cheek. He just grins unrepentantly back at you, popping it in his mouth. "Rude. You used to be sweet."

"I was never sweet."

"Fair," he concedes, licking salt off his thumb. He definitely takes his time with it, easing the digit in slowly and making an exaggerated sound of delight. "But you used to pretend a little easier. Now you just look at me like you want to fight or jump my bones every time we're alone."

Your stomach drops. Well, there he goes again. You swallow thickly. "Jesus. Can you please have some tact?"

"What?" He says, as innocently as he can when his resting facial expression is a shit-eating grin and eyes full of mischief. "I'm just saying. You could stand to be nicer to your brother."

"We're not siblings."

"Step," he corrects with a sigh. "And only technically. That's a loophole, babe."

"You're disgusting."

Patrick leans back, arms behind his head like he's in on some joke no one else is. His shirt rides up just enough to flash a sliver of skin and the edge of the tattoo on his hip—the one you had licked that night, that you now pretend you haven't thought about every night since. Your eyes catch on the ink again. You hate how fast your gaze drops to it, how your brain lingers on the taste of his skin, the way his stomach had tensed under your tongue.

"Missed it, huh?" Patrick’s voice is nothing but a taunt, all low and warm. "You can touch, you know. I don’t bite."

"That’s a lie," you mutter, trying to focus on the screen. You’ve seen maybe three minutes of this movie and not one scene has stuck. "You literally bit me."

"Yeah, and you moaned." He grins wider when you make a strangled sound and throw a popcorn kernel at him again. He catches it this time—with his mouth, the absolute menace—and winks.

"I hate you."

“No,” he says, dropping his voice as he sits forward, arms resting on his knees. “You hate that I know what you sound like when you—"

Your heart stutters and your breath catches uncomfortably in your throat. He’s serious now. No smirk. No joke.

"We agreed—" You try to interrupt.

"You agreed," he cuts in, all soft and smug and dangerous. "You were the one crawling back to your room saying ‘we can’t do this again, Pat.’ I just said, ‘Sure, baby, let me know when you’re lying to yourself a little less.’"

God. He’s unbearable.