5

I push open the door to the living room and the smell hits me first—butter and vanilla and something caramelizing. Pancakes. Normal. A Sunday morning like a hundred others I've spent in this penthouse, except my body still hums with the memory of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him beside me in the dark.

I adjust the sash on my silk robe. The fabric feels thin. Almost see-through in the wrong light. I'd grab something else, change into jeans and a sweater, but Callum's voice floats out from the kitchen—"Bella? That you? Get your ass in here, these are getting cold."

So I walk in.

Callum's at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing that oversized NFL hoodie he never washes. His back is to me, broad and solid, and he's flipping a pancake with the kind of casual confidence that comes from years of feeding himself after practice. He doesn't turn around when I enter, just lifts the spatula in greeting. "Syrup's on the counter. Coffee's fresh."

But Caleb—Caleb is already at the breakfast bar. He's sitting on one of the tall stools, legs spread, elbows on the granite. His hair is still damp at the ends, pushed back from his forehead, and he's wearing a simple gray t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders like it was painted on. His eyes find me the second I cross the threshold, and they don't let go.

A coffee mug sits between his hands. His fingers are wrapped around it like he's grounding himself, and for a second I wonder if he's replaying the same loop I am—his mouth on me, my hands in his hair, the way he said my name in the dark like it was something sacred.

I look away first. My face is hot.

"Morning," I manage, and my voice comes out smaller than I meant it to.

Callum glances over his shoulder, grinning. He's got a smear of flour on his jaw. "There she is. Thought you were gonna sleep the whole day away."

"I was tired." The words feel like a confession I didn't mean to make. My cheeks burn hotter.

If Callum notices, he doesn't show it. He slides a plate onto the counter—three pancakes stacked high, butter melting in slow rivulets down the sides—and points the spatula at me. "Eat. You're too skinny. Caleb, tell her she's too skinny."

"She's not skinny," Caleb says, and his voice does something to my stomach. Low. Rough. Like he hasn't used it since last night. "She's perfect."

I freeze.

Callum laughs. "Smooth, man. You trying to steal my sister?"

The joke lands like a grenade in the middle of the kitchen. I feel it in my chest, the delayed explosion, and I don't dare look at Caleb. I slide onto the stool beside him—not too close, not too far—and reach for the syrup.

My hand shakes. Just a little. Just enough that the bottle clinks against the lip of the plate when I pick it up.

Caleb's knee presses against mine under the counter.

It's barely a touch. The fabric of his sweats brushes my bare skin where my robe has fallen open, and the contact sends a shock through me that makes my breath catch. I freeze, syrup bottle suspended mid-air, and I can feel his eyes on my profile.

A warning or a promise.

I can't tell which.

I pour the syrup in slow spirals, watching the amber liquid spread across the top pancake, and I try to remember how to breathe normally. His knee stays where it is. A constant pressure. A line of heat that says I'm here. I remember. I'm not pretending I don't.

"So," Callum says, turning back to the stove. "What are you two up to today? I got film study at two, but the rest of the day's open if you wanna grab lunch or something."

I open my mouth to answer, but Caleb speaks first.

"I've got a thing."

A thing. The words land flat, and I feel them like a door closing. I don't look at him, but my grip on the syrup bottle tightens.

"What kind of thing?" Callum asks, dropping another pancake onto the growing stack.

"Just a thing." Caleb's voice is easy. Careless. The same tone he uses when he's talking about practice or a party or a girl he's planning to text. "Met someone a few days ago. She's been texting."

The pancake on my plate suddenly looks unappetizing. I set the syrup bottle down and watch it drip off the edge of the stack, pooling on the ceramic plate.

"Which one?" Callum asks, and there's a grin in his voice. "The blonde from the club? Or the redhead from the fundraiser?"

"Brunette, actually." Caleb takes a sip of his coffee. His knee hasn't moved. It's still pressed against mine, warm and solid, even as he talks about another woman. "Name's Jade. She's a yoga instructor."

I feel sick.

"Yoga instructor," Callum repeats, impressed. "Flexible. Nice."

"Callum." My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to. "I'm eating."

He holds up his hands, still grinning. "Sorry, sorry. Forgot my baby sister was in the room." He winks at me, and it's so normal, so brotherly, that I feel a pang of guilt so sharp it almost doubles me over. He doesn't know. He has no idea that his best friend spent last night in my bed. That I touched him. That I almost let him inside me.

I cut a piece of pancake and force it into my mouth. It tastes like nothing.

"What time's your thing?" Callum asks Caleb.

"Not sure yet. She's supposed to text me."

"Bring her to the club this weekend. That place I told you about."

I look up at that. "What club?"

Callum waves a hand. "Place some of the guys go. Private. Members only." He says it vaguely, like he's already said too much, and he turns back to the stove.

But Caleb doesn't look away from me. He holds my gaze for one long beat, and there's something in his eyes I can't name—a challenge, maybe. Or a test.

"It's a sex club," he says.

I nearly choke on my pancake.

"Jesus, Caleb." Callum laughs, but it's tight. "Read the room."

"What? She asked."

My face is on fire. I take a sip of water and try to compose myself, but my mind is racing. A sex club. Caleb and Callum go to a sex club. Of course they do. They're NFL players, rich and famous and surrounded by women who throw themselves at them. Why wouldn't they?

And Caleb is taking some yoga instructor named Jade tonight.

The fork in my hand trembles. I set it down before I drop it.

"You should come," Caleb says, and for a second I think he's talking to me. But he's looking at Callum now, casual, leaning back on his stool. "You and whoever you're seeing. Make it a double."

"Maybe." Callum shrugs. "Depends on how film study goes."

I stare at my plate. The pancake is a wreck—cut into too-small pieces, syrup bleeding across the ceramic. I'm not hungry. I don't think I've ever been less hungry in my life.

I need to get out of this kitchen.

"I'm gonna go take a shower," I say, pushing my plate away.

"You barely ate." Callum looks at me, frowning. "You feeling okay?"

"Fine. Just tired." I stand up, and my robe falls open at the thigh. I catch Caleb's eyes dropping to the exposed skin, just for a fraction of a second, before he looks away. "I'll be out later."