You’ve known Dion for six years now.

Six years of family dinners, group hangouts, and watching him ruffle your brother’s hair like an annoying big sibling. Six years of him calling you “kid” with that easy, lopsided grin, no matter how much you’ve tried to prove you’re anything but.

You were twenty when your brother first introduced you to Dion. He was twenty-six then—taller, broader, and every bit the kind of guy you’d heard girls swooning over.

You’d rolled your eyes at first, determined not to join the masses. But that resolve shattered the first time he laughed at one of your jokes, the sound warm and genuine, like you’d cracked a code only a select few could.

Over the years, he became a fixture in your life. Always around for birthdays and barbecues, always teasing you about your college essays or your terrible taste in music.

You grew used to the way his cologne lingered in the air after he left, the way his laugh echoed in your head long after he was gone. But no matter how much time passed, how much you grew, he still saw you as his best friend’s little sister.

You hate how that label feels like a lock on a door you’re not allowed to open. You hate how he pats your head like you’re still twenty and wide-eyed, not a grown woman standing her ground. And most of all, you hate how your stomach flips every time he smiles at you like you’re the only one in the room.

It’s at your brother’s engagement party when things start to shift. You’re standing by the fireplace, sipping mulled wine, when Dion walks in. His hair’s a little longer than usual, and he’s wearing a sweater that clings to his broad shoulders in a way that makes your heart skip. He spots you immediately and makes his way over, that familiar grin tugging at his lips.

“Hey, kid,” he says, leaning casually against the mantle.