Semua Bab The Playboy Stepbrother's Rules: Bab 101 - Bab 110

The invitation did not come as an invitation.It came as a question Silas asked Bridget, which Bridget carried like something fragile and potentially explosive, and which Alex heard on a Thursday over pasta that had gone cold on his fork.“He wants to know if you’d consider Sunday lunch at the house,” Bridget said. “You and Troy. He told me to say it was optional. He told me to say there would be no conditions and no study afterward. He also told me to say he understands if the answer is not yet.”Alex sat back in his chair in the Italian place and let the words settle. Across town Troy would be on site or already home, the flat holding its ordinary quiet. The Morrison dining table lived in Alex’s memory as a border of serving spoons and supervised civility. Putting Troy at it on purpose was a different species of act from a pavement in daylight.“What do you want,” Alex asked.Bridget’s smile was tired and honest. “I want a Sunday that doesn’t feel like a trial. I want my son in the

The second time they drove to the Morrison house, the streets were less like a countdown and more like a route.Alex still felt the old arithmetic in his stomach—driveway, door, hallway—but the exit sat beside it with equal weight: two-thirty, keys, engine, home. Troy drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear, close enough that Alex’s fingers could find his without a performance.“Same clock,” Troy said at a red light.“Same clock. Kind without small.”Troy glanced over. “Bridget’s brief.”“Bridget’s brief.”The light changed. The circular driveway appeared. Bridget opened the door before the engine died, as if she had been waiting in the hall, and this time when she squeezed Troy’s arm the hesitation was shorter.“He’s in the living room,” she said. “He set a timer on the oven so he wouldn’t invent a reason to hold you past your clock. I’m choosing to find that endearing.”“We’ll take it,” Alex said.Silas stood when they entered. No glass of water as a prop

The restaurant Bridget chose had soft light and enough space between tables that a family could be stiff without becoming a spectacle.Alex arrived with Troy at seven, both of them dressed cleanly and without costume energy. Bridget was already there in a dress Alex recognised from quieter years, eyes bright. Silas stood when they reached the table—an old reflex—and sat only after they did. No tablet. No folder. A bottle of wine already opened as a statement of occasion rather than armour.“Happy birthday,” Alex said, and handed her a small wrapped thing: a book she had mentioned months ago and forgotten she wanted. Bridget’s face did the full collapse-and-recover of someone being known on purpose.“You remembered.”“I keep notes now,” Alex said. “In a phone, not a nervous system.”Troy set a second package beside hers—tea she liked, the kind the house always ran out of. “Bridget.”“Troy.” She squeezed his hand once, brief and real. “Thank you for coming.”Silas watched the exchange w

Kevin’s dinner was at his place, which meant too much takeaway on a small table and Paxton already arguing with the playlist when Alex and Troy arrived. “You’re late,” Kevin said, though they weren’t. “You’re hosting,” Alex said. “Be nice.” “I’m never nice. I’m precise.” Kevin hugged him hard, then pointed at Troy. “You. Shoes off. Don’t colonise the sofa before we’ve eaten.” Troy’s mouth twitched. “Hello to you too.” Paxton handed over beers and kissed Kevin’s temple in passing, an ordinary intimacy that no longer looked like a secret in a crisis. The four of them crowded into the living room with containers open and elbows competing for space. For twenty minutes the talk was only food and work and a neighbour of Kevin’s who played the trumpet badly at dawn. Alex felt the evening settle around him like a coat that fit. No agenda. No silverware with memory. Troy’s knee against his under the low table. Kevin stealing food from Paxton’s box without looking. “Third Sunday held,”

Morning light came through the second-floor window in a wide, ordinary strip.Alex woke first and did not move. Troy was still asleep, face softened, one arm heavy across Alex’s waist as if even unconscious he kept a ledger of where Alex was. The flat made its small sounds—the fridge, a pipe, the dog on the ground floor offering an opinion to the day. No study door. No different floors. No map.Alex watched him until Troy’s eyes opened.“Staring,” Troy murmured.“Allowed.”Troy pulled him closer and kissed him, sleep-warm and slow. “What’s the schedule.”“Nothing that matters before this.”“Good.”They stayed in bed longer than the day required. Hands wandering. Mouths finding familiar places. When Troy rolled him onto his back, Alex went easy, legs opening, breath already unsteady. Troy took his time—mouth at Alex’s throat, his chest, lower—until Alex’s fingers knotted in his hair and his voice broke on a plea that wasn’t a plea so much as a fact. When Troy finally pushed into him, i