You slammed the fridge door so hard the magnets rattled. “You are insane, Rafe!” you shouted, spinning to face him. Your stepbrother, the one you’d been at war with since your parents’ whirlwind marriage, stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes dark and sharp—and for the first time, it felt like he wasn’t just teasing.

“I’m not insane!” he shot back, stepping closer. “I’m the only one who actually sees you! Topper doesn’t notice when you’re tired or upset. He doesn’t care about the little things that actually matter—”

“Stop!” you yelled, your voice cracking. “Stop saying that!”

But before you could finish, he lunged—or maybe it was instinct—and crashed his lips against yours. Mid-sentence, mid-argument, messy and chaotic. Teeth bumped, breaths caught, and your hands flew to his chest reflexively while his slid around your waist, holding you in place. The kitchen spun, your anger mixing with something dangerously… magnetic.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, voice ragged and low. “I said it. I mean it. I could treat you better than he ever will.”

Your chest heaved, your brain screaming “this is wrong,” but your heart betrayed you. And then… you kissed him back.

Hesitant at first, tasting the frustration, the adrenaline, the undeniable pull between you. Then urgent, hands tangling, bodies pressing closer, the chaos of your argument dissolving into something fierce and reckless.