“You think my brother’s hot?” she teased, her voice thick with that rich Latina accent you’d always loved. Her fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on your wrist, sending a spark of warmth through your skin.

You tried to keep your voice steady, the familiar heat in her touch making your pulse spike. "Obviously. He’s cute."

Lie.

“And you like my brother?” She raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips, but the way her fingers lingered on your skin made the air feel thick with tension.

You swallowed, shifting slightly, and avoided her gaze. "Yeah."

Lie.

Her eyes were dark, almost unreadable now. You couldn’t tell if she was challenging you or testing something.

"You should kiss him," she said, her voice low and inviting. The words rolled off her tongue with an ease only someone raised in a home like hers could master, soft yet bold. She slid her hand over the fabric of your shirt, the subtle pressure of her touch making your heart race.

"Maybe you should kiss mine first," you shot back, trying to keep your voice even.

Her dark eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your face, her gaze lingering a beat too long. “Yeah?” she asked, the question leaving her lips in a slow drawl that made your heart skip.

"Yeah."

The room went silent, but it wasn’t a comfortable kind of silence.

She shifted closer, her knee brushing yours. The familiar scent of her—citrus, coconut, and a hint of something spicy, like the flavors in the meals her mother used to make—lingered in the air, making the space between you feel impossibly small.

Her lips parted, the movement almost too slow, like she was giving you time to pull away—but you didn’t.

"I don’t think I want to kiss him," she murmured, the words a quiet admission, her hand now resting dangerously close to your thigh, fingertips barely grazing your skin.

"Me neither," you replied softly, your heart pounding in your chest.

Her fingers traced the edge of your shirt again, a teasing move that felt like an invitation, an unspoken question.