He’s his brother’s best friend.
He was never supposed to look at him like that.
They’ve spent years in the same rooms, the same circles, close enough to feel the pull and careful enough to pretend it wasn’t there. He learned how to look away. How to keep his hands to himself. How to act like the way his chest tightened when they were left alone didn’t mean anything.
Until the night the pretending stopped.
One reckless moment turns into something neither of them can walk back from. The secret starts living in the space between them—every glance that lasts too long, every almost-touch, every time they’re forced to stand close and act like nothing has changed. Now every conversation feels like a risk. Every time they almost say it out loud makes the want worse. And the longer they keep falling, the harder it becomes to remember why this was supposed to stay forbidden in the first place.
His brother trusts him.
His brother has no idea.
Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.
They cross it anyway. And once they do, neither of them knows how to stop.