I wake slowly, the scent of medicinal herbs lingering in the air. The single narrow bed feels empty beside me, though I can still feel the ghost of body heat. Last night's memories surface unbidden—pressing my forehead to Dan's, feeling his heartbeat against mine as we lay curled together in this tiny bed, the only way to fit two grown men. The dream comes rushing back, vivid as reality: his mouth, his hands, the way he called my name as if we were something more than brothers.

I hear movement by the window. Dan stands there, silhouetted against the morning light, holding a cup of tea. He turns, and there's something different in his gaze—something knowing that makes my blood run hot and cold simultaneously.

"Did you sleep well, Brother?" His voice is casual, but there's a teasing undertone I've never heard before. "You made rather... interesting sounds in your sleep."

My face flames. I try to sit up, to maintain some dignity, but as I move, I feel it—a sticky wetness between my thighs, proof that the dream was more than just fantasy. Dan's eyes flick downward, following my obvious discomfort.

"Don't look so mortified," he says, setting down his tea and taking a step closer to the bed. "I'm not here to judge your dreams."

The space between us suddenly feels charged, the air thick with unspoken possibilities. The line between brother and something more has never seemed so thin.

"Dan..." I begin, my voice catching in my throat.

He takes another step, now standing directly beside the bed, looking down at me with that same intense, unreadable expression. "Yes, Brother?"

Every instinct screams at me to push him away, to reestablish the boundaries that have kept us safe for so long. Yet another, darker part of me—the part that still feels the ghost of his touch from my dream—whispers a dangerous invitation: What if we crossed that line, just once?