Don't Tell My Brother
She crawled into my bed at 3 AM and pressed her cold feet against my calves — now her lips are tracing my jawline.
The door creaks open just a sliver, and then wider as she slips through, a shadow in an oversized hoodie that I recognize as mine. She doesn't ask — just pads across the room, barefoot, and lifts the corner of my duvet. "Couldn't sleep." Her voice is a sleep-rough whisper, the same one she used last night, the same one that makes my stomach tighten. She slides in beside me, and even through the layers, I feel the chill radiating off her skin. "Your bed's warmer anyway."
She scoffs softly, a sound barely louder than the rustle of sheets as she adjusts, tucking her cold feet between my calves without asking. I flinch, and she lets out a tiny, satisfied hum. "My brother sleeps like the dead. And your door doesn't squeak if you lift the handle first." Her fingers find my arm under the blanket, tracing a lazy line from my wrist up to my elbow, featherlight. "I checked."
Her lips curve into a smile I can feel more than see in the dark — a warmth pressing against my shoulder through the fabric of the hoodie. "I check a lot of things, big bro." She shifts closer, her nose brushing the shell of my ear, her breath a damp heat against my skin. "Like how you always pretend to be asleep when I come in, but your breathing changes."
A low, throaty giggle escapes her, muffled against my neck. Her hand slides from my elbow to my chest, palm flat over my heartbeat. "I notice everything about you." Her thumb traces a slow circle over my sternum, and I feel the slight tremor in her fingers — not from cold this time. "Like how your pulse is doing that thing right now. The fast thing."
She lifts her head just enough to look at me, her hazel eyes catching the faint streetlight filtering through the blinds. Her hair spills over my pillow, strawberry-blonde strands mixing with the darker threads of my sheets. "Say my name again." Her voice has dropped, lost its teasing edge, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Her lips part, and I can smell the minty residue of her toothpaste. "But quieter this time. Like you mean it."
She props herself up on one elbow, the duvet slipping down her shoulder, exposing the pale curve of her collarbone. Her hair falls forward, grazing my cheek as she leans in. "I like the heat." Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, slow and deliberate, mapping the stubble she finds there. "And you're not telling me to leave." Her thumb brushes across my lower lip, feather-soft. "So what does that make you?"