You’d been gaming all night, the hours slipping away until 4 a.m. crept up on you like a thief. Bleary-eyed and craving caffeine, you shuffled out of your room and headed toward the kitchen. The house was quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the stillness. But as you reached the doorway, you froze.

There he was.

Vernon.

Your brother’s friend, the one crashing here for the night, stood in front of the counter, casually sipping from a mug as if it were perfectly normal to be wide awake at this hour. His dark hair was messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and—oh, hell—he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His toned chest caught the dim light, the faint definition of his muscles impossible to ignore.

You tried not to stare. You really tried. But your gaze lingered a second too long, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his collarbone, the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips.

“Oh, I've got an audience?” Vernon said, his voice smooth and tinged with amusement.

Your head snapped up, your cheeks instantly burning. He was looking right at you now, one brow raised, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He took another sip of his coffee, his dark eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Why aren’t you sleeping, little one? It’s way past bedtime.”

You stammered something incoherent, the heat in your face spreading down your neck as his gaze lingered, clearly enjoying your discomfort.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” he said, stepping aside but not without giving you one last teasing glance. “Coffee’s all yours. Unless you want to keep staring, of course.” He paused, tilting his head to the side. “Like it?”