Another seven minutes drag by; the clock on the media unit blinks forward again.
Now I’m curious… and bothered. The feeling sits heavy and uncomfortable in my gut. Has he forgotten I’m even here? Or did he quietly check to make sure I was still out cold before he started?
This isnothow I expected my first morning in his apartment to go.
A louder groan suddenly cuts through the quiet… it’s raw, edged with relief, the sound of someone finally tipping over the edge.
My breath catches sharply in my throat. Heat pools low in my gut, unexpected and unwelcome. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, forcing myself to think of anything else… work spreadsheets, traffic, the fucking weather… anything but the image of Rowan in there, flushed and breathing hard. It’s wrong,completelyfucked up to have any kind of reaction to your stepbrother.
I tell myself it’s just because I find people fascinating. Rowan especially. I’ve never really understood him, the way he guards his space, the way he keeps everyone at arm’s length, the way he looks at me like I’m irritating.
I crack one eye open and frown at the clock.Twenty minutes. That had to be purposeful. Hemusthave been deliberately dragging it out, right? The thought keeps circling as I stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore the lingering heat in my gut and the way my body refuses to calm down.
Then I hear the soft click of Rowan’s bedroom door opening. My instincts kick in instantly. I roll over fast, turning my back to the room and facing the couch cushions, pretending to still be deep in sleep. There’s no time to pull the blanket over myself, leaving me exposed in nothing but my black boxers. I force my breathing to stay slow and even, though my heart is suddenly hammering against my ribs.
Bare feet pad quietly down the hallway. I hold my breath. The apartment falls into a heavy, charged silence broken only by the low hum of the city waking up far below the windows. Mymind races even as I keep perfectly still. Did he see me? Did he notice the way I’m sprawled here, half-naked on his couch, back turned like some coward trying to hide? Or is he too wrapped up in his own morning fog to register anything?
Every second stretches. My skin feels too warm, too aware of the cool air against my bare back and legs. The memory of that muffled groan still echoes in my ears no matter how hard I try to push it away. I stay frozen, breath locked tight in my chest, waiting.
Chapter Four
Rowan
I step out of my bedroom after finishing in the bathroom and quickly changing. It’s Saturday, so there’s no urgent work meeting first thing, but I know David will assume my “early appointment” is business-related.
Just in case anyone snaps a photo or I run into someone who matters, I dress the part: black casual slacks that sit perfectly on my hips, a crisp black button-down with the sleeves rolled once, and my watch catching the morning light on my wrist. My curls are softly gelled into place, or as close as they ever get. That one stubborn lock still refuses to behave, falling over my brow no matter how much extra product I work into it. I look like something out of a goddamn boy band.
I walk into the open living space and freeze mid-step. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
I’d completely forgotten Cade was here. My gaze darts back toward my bedroom door as a slow, mortifying warmth crawls up my neck. If Cade heard me earlier… if he’d been awake at all while I was jerking off…shit.
Twenty minutes of chasing an edge that kept slipping away. I hadn’t even been properly awake when I started. Half-asleep, hand already moving on autopilot, I didn’t stop toremember that my stepbrother was sleeping just down the hall on my couch. I swallow hard and frown, trying to push the embarrassment down.
My eyes land on Cade again. The blanket has slipped off him sometime in the night, leaving him curled up in nothing but boxers. The morning light traces every line of muscle across his back, the sharp cut of his hips, the dark trail of hair. Even asleep he looks like he’s showing off. Uncomfortable heat prickles under my skin. I walk over quickly and tug the blanket back up over him, not because I’m being nice, but because seeing him like that feels… wrong.
I step up into the kitchen area and pour myself a glass of cold water, drinking it slowly while trying to settle my nerves.
My appointment with the therapist is in half an hour. I’ve only been to a few sessions so far. He’s not your average talk-it-out therapist. My doctor recommended him specifically, someone who specialises in helping people reconnect with their own bodies. After running every test imaginable, the doctor assured me there were no circulatory problems, no neurological issues, nothing physically wrong. Which somehow makes it worse.
I can’t have sex without it lasting an embarrassingly long time. When I do manage to finish with someone, the women usually assume I’m some generous lover who wants to draw it out for them; they never complain. But it exhausts me. Even when I’m alone, jerking off, the edge constantly slips away no matter how hard I chase it. It’s frustrating…depressing, if I’m honest.
How the hell am I supposed to have any kind of relationship if I can’t even perform like a normal person? It feels ridiculous to be this hung up on it, but the weight of it sits heavy in my chest anyway, something no one knows about.
I grab my keys from the bowl by the door, shrug on a lightweight jacket, and flick one last glance toward the couch. Cade’s breathing is still slow and steady, chest rising and falling under the blanket I pulled over him.
I slip out the door as quietly as I can, locking it behind me. Time to see what the therapist has to say today.
…
The therapist’s office is on the tenth floor of a quiet downtown building, neutral tones, soft lighting, comfortable leather armchairs, and a large window that looks out over the park rather than the busy streets. No couches, no weird art, just calm.
Dr. Hart greets me at the door with a firm handshake and a small, reassuring smile. “Rowan, good to see you again. Come on in. How have you been since last time?”
I settle into the armchair, crossing one leg over the other. “Mentally? Fine, actually. Work’s steady. Family’s… family.” I pause, then add with a dry edge, “Aside from the usual.”
Dr. Hart nods, leaning back slightly in his chair, notepad resting on his knee but rarely used. He’s in his mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, calm eyes that never make you feel like you’re being dissected. “And the sexual side of things? Any shifts this week?”
I rub my thumb along the edge of my watch, staring at the floor for a second before meeting his gaze. “Not really. Still the same issue. It’s…exhaustingmore than anything.”
