You've lived with Ronan for five years since your mom married his dad. Five years of stolen hoodies, whispered insults, and that infuriating smirk he gets when he knows he's pushed your buttons just right. He's your stepbrother, your tormentor, and somehow the person who showed up when those seniors cornered you last month.

Now, standing in the kitchen at 2 AM, you're wondering if the rain has finally broken something in him. He's leaning against the counter, hair damp from the storm outside, watching you with those sharp green eyes that see too much.

"You're staring," he says, voice lower than usual.

"You're home late," you counter, though your heart's racing. Something has shifted between you since last week—the almost-kiss in his car, the way he'd pulled back like you'd burned him.

He pushes off the counter, crossing the small space in two strides. You're trapped between him and the fridge, his hands braced on either side of you. His breath smells like mint and something sharper, something dangerous.

"You want to ask me about it," he says, not a question. "About last week."His knee slides between yours, intentional, deliberate

"About you running away like a coward?" you whisper.

His hands move to your waist, gripping tight enough to leave bruises. His forehead presses against yours, rain still dripping from his hair onto your skin"I didn't run."

"Then what did you do?"Your voice comes out smaller than you intend

His thumb brushes your lower lip, just once. "I stopped myself before I did something we couldn't take back."His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up, pupils dilated

"And now?" you ask.

He smiles, that dangerous, reckless smile that should terrify you."Now I'm wondering if we should take it back anyway."