And God help me—I’m kissing him back.
He tastes like sugar and coffee, and something hotter, darker, entirely his. His hand slides up my side, fingers splaying wide, not demanding—just there. Like he’s holding me in place while the rest of the world falls away.
And it does.
Everything—my messy life, the couch I’ve been sleeping on, the fact that this is mybrother’s best friend—it all disappears underthe press of his mouth, the slow drag of his lips, the way his thumb brushes bare skin just above the waistband of my leggings.
I gasp softly, and he answers with a low sound in the back of his throat that curls heat through my spine.
This is a bad idea.
The worst idea.
I should stop.
I should absolutely, definitely stop.
Instead, I shift closer, my knees brushing his thigh as I tilt my head and kiss him deeper. His tongue meets mine—slow, teasing, devastating—and my body arches instinctively like I want to crawl into him and stay there.
There’s nothing slow or safe about this anymore. It’s all pull. All spark. All gravity.
And when his hand moves up, fingers brushing the hem of my hoodie, I swear my brain just… fizzles.
I’m not thinking about consequences.
I’m not thinking at all.
I’m just feeling.
And God, he feelsgood.
He kisses like he knows exactly what he’s doing—and exactly what it’s doing to me. My fingers slide up the back of his neck, into his hair, and he groans into my mouth. It’s low and raw and wrecked, and it undoes something inside me I didn’t even know was still holding on.
I want to live in this moment. I want to bottle it. I want to write a blog post called “How to Know You’ve Made a Huge Mistake That Feels Unfairly Incredible” and then delete it and do this all over again.
And then—
Keys jangle at thedoor.
We freeze.
The world shifts. Snaps.
Oh no. No no no no—
Liam.
I bolt off the couch like I’ve been electrocuted. My socked foot catches on the rug and I nearly wipe out, flailing for balance. Ash doesn’t move with anything close to the same level of panic. He just blinks once, turns calmly, and picks up a donut off the coffee table like he hasn’t been kissing the hell out of his best friend’s little sister.
I grab the first thing in reach—an old paperback from the end table—and clutch it like it’s a lifeline. Like it can explain the heat in my face or the fact that my lips are tingling or that my bra strap is currently halfway down my arm.
The door swings open.
Liam walks in, headphones around his neck, a bag of tortilla chips in one hand and a six-pack of sparkling water in the other. He’s humming under his breath.
He doesn’t even glance at us.
“Yo,” he says, kicking the door shut with his foot. “Did I miss donut day?”
