Chapter Four

POV: Lucas

I could not get that night out of my head. The wrestling over the controller, the way Ethan had looked up at me on the floor, the way my body had reacted like it knew something my brain refused to admit. I told myself it was nothing. Just the newness of having someone else in my space all the time. But every time I walked into our room and saw him at the desk, pencil moving slow across the paper, hair falling in his eyes, I felt it again. That pull.

School had started and the days blurred. We rode the same bus now, sat at different tables at lunch, acted like we barely knew each other in the halls. At home we kept the routine. Breakfast with the parents pushing the brother act. Dinner with more of the same. Then upstairs where the air always felt thicker once the door closed.

Tonight I needed to blow off steam. The game had gone bad. We lost by six points in the last minute and Coach rode me hard about missing easy shots. I came through the front door still in my jersey, bag slung over my shoulder, and headed straight for the garage without saying hi to anyone.

The punching bag hung in the corner from when Dad used to work out. I wrapped my hands quick, no gloves, and started hitting. Left, right, left. The bag swung and I chased it, letting the frustration pour out with every smack. Sweat ran down my back. My knuckles stung. Good. I needed the hurt.

I did not hear the side door open at first. Then I caught the soft sound of footsteps. Ethan stepped into the garage and stopped a few feet away. He wore the same hoodie from school, hands in the pockets, watching me.

"You okay?" he asked.

I kept hitting. "Fine."

He did not leave. Instead he sat on the old couch against the wall, the one we dragged out here last summer. I felt his eyes on me while I worked the bag. After a few more combos I stopped and wiped my face with the bottom of my jersey. My chest heaved.

"Bad game," I said.

He nodded. "I saw the score online."

Of course he had. He never came to games but he checked anyway. That fact sat warm in my chest for a second before I pushed it away.

I dropped onto the couch next to him, leaving a foot of space. The cushions dipped under my weight. Up close I noticed the way he bit the inside of his lip when he got nervous. He did it now.

"Coach thinks I am slipping," I said. The words came out easier than I expected. "Dad will hear about it tonight. He already texted asking how it went."

Ethan leaned back. "That sucks."

"Yeah." I stretched my legs out. Our knees almost touched. "He wants the perfect son. Perfect grades. Perfect game. Perfect new brother who makes everything smooth at home."

Ethan gave a small laugh. "My mom wants the same. She keeps saying how lucky we are. How this is the fresh start we both needed. I keep thinking if she knew how I really felt about all of it she would lose it."

I turned my head to look at him. "How do you really feel?"

He stared at the punching bag for a long beat. "Scared. Everything changed so fast. Now I live here and I do not know how to act around you half the time."

The honesty hit me square. I had spent the last week telling myself the stares, the touches during the game, the late-night thoughts were just me being weird. But sitting here with him saying it out loud made the room feel smaller.

I shifted closer on the couch. My thigh pressed against his. I told myself it was an accident, that I needed to stretch. But I left it there. He did not move away.

"I keep noticing things," I said quietly. "The way you focus when you draw. How you get quiet when your mom hugs you too long. Stuff I should not be paying attention to."

Ethan swallowed. His leg stayed right where it was.

I let my hand rest on the cushion between us. My fingers brushed the side of his thigh. Not a grab. Just the lightest touch. The fabric of his jeans felt warm. Neither of us pulled back. My heart pounded harder than it had during the game.

"This is messed up," I said, but my voice came out rough, not sorry.

He turned his face toward me. His eyes looked wide in the dim garage light. "Lucas..."

I waited. The air between us felt heavy, like right before a storm. My hand stayed on his leg. I realized I wanted to slide it higher on purpose. Not by accident. On purpose.

Ethan breathed out slow. "Lucas… we can’t. They’re married. This is wrong."

I leaned in closer, voice low. "Then why does it feel like the only thing that isn’t?”